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MY  IRISH  YEAR 


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MY  IRISH  YEAR 


PADRAIG  GOLUM 


WITH  15  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 

JAMES  POTT  &  GO. 


130814 


Copyright  in  the  British  Empire  of  Mills  6^  Boon,  Ltd.,  London. 


TO 

ONE  OF  THE  HIGH  MILESIAN  RACE 

FOR  KINDRED,  COURAGE,  COMRADESHIP 

THIS  MUCH  OF  ME 


INTRODUCTION 

"  My  Irish  Year  "  is  not  representative  of  the  whole 
of  Ireland  :  Catholic  and  Peasant  Ireland  only  is 
shown,  and  this  Catholic  and  Peasant  Ireland  is 
localised  in  a  strip  of  country  crossing  the  Midlands 
to  the  West.  There  is  nothing  of  historic  Munster  in 
these  pages  ;  nothing  of  East  and  South  Leinster ; 
nothing  of  Ulster — neither  of  the  Ulster  of  the  Presby- 
terian farmers  so  ably  described  in  Mr  Robert  Lynd's 
"  Home  Life  in  Ireland,"  nor  the  wider  Ulster  that 
is  CathoUc  and  GaeHc.  The  cities,  Dublin,  Belfast, 
and  Cork,  each  with  its  distinctive  life  and  atmosphere, 
have  not  been  brought  into  the  book. 

Within  the  locality  described  the  author  has  been 
too  much  inclined,  perhaps,  to  view  the  life  in  its 
agrarian  aspect.  The  current  set  up  by  the  Gaelic 
League,  affecting  the  revival  of  language,  music, 
dances,  and  games,  has  not  been  given  due  apprecia- 
tion, and  the  life — or  rather  the  form  of  decay — that 


vui  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

exists  in  the  country  towns  has  not  been  fully  shown. 
Still,  if  not  representative  of  the  whole  of  Ireland, 
"  My  Irish  Year  "  is  representative  of  a  great  part 
of  Ireland.  The  life  described  may  stand  for  the 
Hfe  of  the  Cathohc  peasantry.  And  the  Catholic 
peasantry  are  not  merely  the  bulk  of  the  Irish  popula- 
tion ;  they  are,  roughly  speaking,  the  historic  Irish 
nation. 

Besides  its  geographical  boundary,  some  readers 
may  be  aware  of  another  boundary  in  this  book. 
That  boundary  is  in  the  writer's  mind :  his  tradition 
puts  him  definitely  with  the  peasant,  the  nationaHst, 
and  the  Irish  Catholic. 

"  My  Irish  Year  "  is  composed  of  studies  made  while 
living  among  the  people  of  the  Midlands  and  the 
West.  Some  of  these  studies  were  pubHshed  in 
The  Manchester  Guardian  and  The  Nation,  and 
the  author  returns  thanks  to  the  editors  of  these 
journals  for  permission  to  repubHsh.  Acknowledg- 
ments are  also  due  to  Messrs  Chatto  &  Windus  and 
to  the  Cuala  Press,  Dundrum — to  Messrs  Chatto  & 
Windus  for  permission  to  include  the  "  Horned 
Women,"  a  story  given  in  Lady  Wilde's  "  Ancient 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

Legends  of  Ireland,"  and  to  the  Cuala  Press,  Dun- 
drum,  for  leave  to  publish  the  old  ballad,  "  Cavan 
Races."  To  Miss  Beatrice  Elvery,  to  Myra  K. 
Hughes,  to  A.  E.,  to  Mr  Paul  Henry,  to  Mr  Wm. 
MacBride,  to  Mr  E.  A.  Morrows  and  to  Mr  Jack 
B.  Yeats  the  author  returns  thanks  for  permis- 
sion to  reproduce  their  beautiful  and  distinctive 
pictures. 


CONTENTS 

PAET  I 
THE  MIDLANDS 

CHAPTER  I 

PAGE 

A  SUKVEY     3 

CHAPTER  II 

RUKAL  ECONOMY 14 

CHAPTER  III 

LETTEE  TO   AN  IRISH   FARMER 41 

CHAPTER  IV 

^  SURVIVING  MYTH   AND   CUSTOM 48 

CHAPTER  V 

RELIGION  IN  POPULAR  POETRY 59 

CHAPTER  VI 

SONGS,   STORIES,   AND   CONVERSATIONS       ....  65 

CHAPTER  VII 

A   MARRIAGE 97 

CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  PEASANT  PROPRIETOR 108 


xii  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

CHAPTER  IX 

PAGE 

AN   AGRAKIAN   PRIEST 113 

CHAPTER  X 

THE   COUNTRY  SCHOOLMASTER 118 

CHAPTER  XI 

A   GRAZIER 123 

CHAPTER  XII 

THE   COUNTRY  TRADER 126 

PART  II 
ABROAD  IN  BREFFNI 131 

PART  III 
THE  WEST— SKETCHES 205 

PART  IV 
THE  CRISIS  IN  IRELAND 269 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Irish  Parliament  House,  College  Green 

The  Bog 

The  Zither-Player 

The  Agricultural  College,  Ballyhaise 

The  New  College  of  Science,  Dublin 

The  Horn  Blowers    . 

A  Madonna  of  the  West  . 

An  Irish  Folk-Tale  , 

The  Tinker's  Curse  . 

A  Country  Shop 

A  Summer  Night  in  Ballycastle 

A  Man  of  the  Congested  Districts  . 

The  Twelve  Pins,  County  Mayo 

The  Gaelic  Eevival  .... 

CONNEMARA   PEASANTS   WATCHING   RaCES 


Frontispiece 

FACING   PAGE 

7 


10 

26 

28 

49 

62 

80 

92 

127 

160 

209 

230 

235 

240 


PART  I 
THE  MIDLANDS 


CHAPTER  I 

A    SURVEY 

I  STOOD  in  the  middle  of  Ireland  ;  the  wind  that  came 
to  me  had  blown  across  the  wide  space  of  the  bog  of 
Allen ;  the  road  I  had  travelled  ran  back  to  the 
valley  Hke  the  dried  bed  of  a  river.  If  you  hump 
up  the  index-finger  against  your  thumb,  the  knuckle 
of  the  digit  will  indicate  the  elevation  I  had  reached. 
The  road  before  me  was  straight  and  level. 

It  was  young  in  the  morning.  People  were  work- 
ing in  the  fields.     I  spoke  to  one  of  the  men. 

"  It's  a  good  day." 

"  A  good  day  indeed,  thanks  be  to  God." 

"  Has  the  priest  passed  this  way  yet  ?  " 

"  He  hasn't  passed  this  way." 

I  was  going  to  a  "  station "  at  Farral  Markey's 
house,  and  as  the  priest  had  not  passed,  I  was  in 
good  time.  I  loitered  and  surveyed  a  country  so 
spacious  that  the  carts  that  creaked  upon  the  road 
would  have  taken  the  whole  of  a  day  to  cross  the 
bounds  of  my  vision,  travelling  east  and  west,  south 
and  north.  It  was  in  stretches  of  bog  and  patches 
of  arable  land.  Clumps  of  trees  were  around  certain 
farm  houses.  And  now  three  figures  approached, 
a  grandmother,  a  young  child,  and  an  old  man. 
They,  too,  were  going  to  Farral  Markey's.  I  joined 
them,  and  we  went  along  the  level  road. 

Twice  a  year  in  parts  of  rural  Ireland  a  "  station  " 


4  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

is  held.  A  priest  comes  to  a  farmer's  house,  says 
Mass,  and  remains  on  to  hear  confessions.  In  the 
old  days,  when  chapels  were  few,  the  custom  of  hold- 
ing "  stations  "  was  common.  "  Stations  "  have 
more  to  do  with  the  hearing  of  confessions  than 
with  the  saying  of  Mass.  What  I  was  going  to 
assist  at  was  called  a  station  only  to  distinguish 
it  from  a  Mass  in  the  chapel,  for  it  was  not  an 
official  visitation.  A  young  priest,  a  relative  of  the 
Markeys',  was  saying  Mass  for  a  congregation  of  his 
relatives.  It  was  a  local  or  rather  a  family  festival. 
We  encountered  Farral's  brother  on  the  way.  Peter 
was  dressed  for  the  festival,  but  he  had  taken  off  his 
black  coat  and  was  trimming  the  hedge  with  a  bill- 
hook.  He  put  the  bill-hook  on  his  shoulder  and 
came  on  with  us. 

The  two  brothers  had  the  name  of  being  miserly 
— certainly  they  never  wasted  an  hour  of  the  day. 
But  if  there  were  grasp  in  the  family,  it  must  have 
been  with  the  elder  brother.  Peter  was  rather  like 
the  Irish  peasant  of  the  harsh  English  caricature, 
that  is  to  say,  he  was  a  creature  apart  from  the 
people  who  read  newspapers  ;  he  had  an  ungainly 
face,  with  the  long  upper  lip  and  the  wide  mouth 
that  has  been  so  often  caricatured,  but  his  eyes  were 
simple  and  kindly.  When  we  entered  the  house, 
Farral  Markey  greeted  us  ;  to  each  of  his  visitors 
he  said,  "  You  are  kindly  welcome."  Farral  Markey 
had  not  the  open  mouth  and  the  simple  gaze  of  his 
brother ;  his  mouth  was  tight,  and  his  eyes  were 
screwed  to  penetration.  Men  and  women  were  in 
the  house,  but  the  priest  had  not  yet  come.  As 
we  waited  for  him  we  talked  of  the  season.     The 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  5 

women  spoke  humorously,  the  men  spoke  gravely  ; 
the  women  were  concerned  for  the  fuel,  the  men 
for  the  crops.  The  rain  had  injured  the  oats,  the 
hay  and  the  turf.  Farral  Markey  said,  "  There 
are  three  very  desolate  things,  oats  lying,  hay  lying, 
turf  lying,  and  turf  lying  is  the  most  desolate  of  the 
three."  It  was  hke  a  sentence  out  of  the  Old  Irish 
Triads. 

The  priest  shook  hands  with  us  all ;  then,  with 
the  acolyte,  he  went  into  the  room  that  had  been 
made  ready.  After  a  while  we  followed.  The  beds 
had  been  folded  back  into  their  presses,  a  white 
cloth  was  spread  on  a  little  table,  and  wax  candles 
were  lighted  each  side  of  the  sacred  text.  We 
knelt  down.  No  one  was  conscious  of  the  fact 
that  here  two  great  and  ancient  pieties  were  re- 
conciled. Yet  the  Latin  words  and  the  long-de- 
scended service  might  stand  for  one  idea,  and  the 
peasant  house,  the  kneehng  family,  the  instruments 
of  labour,  might  stand  for  another. 

In  this  part  of  the  country  it  is  not  the  custom 
for  women  to  sit  down  to  a  meal  with  the  priest. 
The  women  waited  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  priest, 
the  peasants  and  myself  sat  down  to  our  particular 
breakfast.  We  had  tea,  bread  and  butter  and  eggs, 
and,  in  honour  of  the  festival,  a  bottle  of  wine  was 
put  upon  the  table.  Farral  Markey  entertained  us 
with  dignity.  At  first  we  talked  of  the  amendment 
in  the  drinking  habits  in  the  country.  Farral  Markey 
told  us  of  the  time  when  no  man  would  leave  the 
fair  without  having  taken  drink  ;  even  if  he  were 
sober,  a  man  would  stagger  on  the  road  so  that  he 
might  not  lose   the   reputation   of  being   a   gallant 


6  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

fellow.  Now  all  that  is  changed ;  if  a  man  drinks 
at  all,  he  will  be  likely  to  conceal  his  fault.  The 
long  campaign  against  intemperance  in  Ireland, 
inaugurated  by  Father  Matthew  in  the  forties,  is 
responsible  for  this.  The  talk  of  the  peasants  at 
that  table  was  mostly  of  their  own  surprising 
security.  Old  Patrick  told  us  that,  thirty  years 
ago,  he  heard  a  priest  say  that  the  time  would  come 
when  their  hardships  under  the  landlords  would  be 
told  as  a  story  round  the  fire — a  story  to  startle  the 
children.  He  never  thought  he  would  see  the  day 
when  they  would  be  clear  of  the  menace  of  land- 
lordism. The  old  men  became  impassioned  upon 
this  topic,  and  we,  who  had  some  dim  memory  of 
the  eighties,  realised  that  the  security  behind  this 
modest  comfort  was  indeed  remarkable.  A  clean 
cloth  was  spread  upon  the  table,  the  peasants  were 
well-clothed,  the  room  was  fairly  furnished.  In 
the  old  days,  if  a  landlord,  or  a  landlord's  hanger-on, 
saw  such  a  display,  the  rent  would  have  been  raised 
on  the  Markeys'.  Farral  Markey  gave  us  the  motto 
with  which  his  old  landlord  justified  his  exactions, 
"  The  higher  you  load  your  horse,  the  tighter  he  will 
draw." 

The  breakfast  for  the  women  was  being  prepared 
when  we  went  into  the  kitchen.  A  boy  was  reading 
the  prophecies  out  of  Old  Moore's  Almanac. 
"  September :  a  great  war  threatens  Europe.  The 
Austrian  Empire,  long  a  foe  to  the  Infidel,  is 
threatened  with  wars  and  dissensions.  .  .  .  October  : 
unhappy  France  finds  too  late  the  evils  consequent 
upon  her  infidelity.  .  .  .  England  will  soon  have 
cause  to  repent  of  her  alliance  with  a  Pagan  Power." 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  7 

"  Arrah,"  said  one  of  the  women,  "  will  you  read 
us  something  that  will  make  the  people's  teeth 
chatter  in  their  heads  with  terror  ?  "  "  December  : 
in  this  month  will  pass  away  a  determined  enemy 
of  Ireland.  Fortified  by  her  long  struggle  and 
united  under  her  trusted  leaders,  Ireland  advances 
towards  her  place  amongst  the  nations — ^Dia  Sack 
Eire." 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  the  Markeys  left 
the  house.  Peter  took  up  the  bill-hook  and  went  back 
along  the  road,  and  I  saw  Farral  opening  a  gate  and 
crossing  hurriedly  to  his  work  in  the  bog.  The  priest 
and  myself  were  part  of  the  road  together.  He  had 
been  ordained  for  the  foreign  mission,  and  he  would 
leave  Ireland  in  a  few  weeks.  Some  years  hence  I 
might  see  him  again,  when  he  would  be  taking  a 
hoUday  in  Ireland.  Then  he  would  be  a  capable 
Irish- American  priest  with  something  of  a  "  hustle  " 
upon  him.     We  parted  at  the  cross  roads. 

And  now  I  had  the  clouds  for  company.  The 
heather  of  the  bog  ran  into  the  deep  grass  that  grew 
each  side  of  the  roadway.  Big  broad-leaved  poplars 
stood  up  into  the  light.  The  bog,  each  side  of  the 
road,  had  colour  and  expanse,  and  the  bog  myrtles 
that  grew  out  of  the  bog  had  the  sun  upon  their 
leaves.  There  were  black  patches  where  the  bog 
had  been  cut  to  the  ooze.  The  canavan  or  bog 
cotton  was  scarce ;  against  the  blackness  of  the 
cut-away  bog  it  showed  a  few  tremulous  white  heads. 
So  far,  the  empty  brown  road  had  gone  between 
low  ditches.  Now  untidy  hedge-rows  began  to  hem 
it  in,  the  fields  had  no  cultivation  ;  in  one,  a  party 
of    crows    were    making    savage    depredation ;     in 


8  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

another,  five  or  six  heads  of  young  black  cattle 
huddled  themselves  together ;  they  were  strangers 
still  to  this  part  of  the  country. 

On  the  road  I  met  a  young  man,  a  student  from 
Dublin,  who  talked  with  the  gloom  of  a  Russian  in- 
tellectual. "  The  people  here  lack  the  wdll,"  he 
said,  "the  passion  for  life."  He  was  infected  by  the 
new  Irish  Drama.  Their  lack  of  will  is  consequent 
on  their  way  of  marrying.  Here  a  woman's  dowry 
is  considered  first,  and  the  woman  herself  afterwards. 
A  marriage  is  just  a  bargain.  The  children  of  such 
marriages  can  have  little  of  the  passion  for  life. 
"  Look  at  the  dog  there,"  he  said,  "  he  does  not 
bark  at  us  even.  The  people  have  the  same  lack 
of  aggressiveness." 

I  agreed  that  we  have  the  lowest  marriage  rate  in 
Europe.  The  young  reformer  went  on  to  say  that 
our  system  of  marriages  does  not  produce  people  mth 
passion  enough  to  create  a  desirable  life  for  them- 
selves. That  is  why  America  has  such  an  attraction 
for  our  people.  They  find  there  a  desirable  life 
ready  made. 

I  agreed  that  emigration  is  due  to  many  other 
reasons  besides  economic  ones.  There  are  no 
centres  of  interest  or  amusement  in  the  country. 

"  And  there  is  Httle  freedom,"  said  my  friend. 
"  No  social  freedom  you  may  say.  Last  Sunday, 
in  the  next  parish  to  this,  I  heard  a  priest  declare 
from  the  altar  his  intention  of  putting  down  dancing 
in  his  parish.  And  this,  after  a  sermon  against 
emigration.  He  is  a  patriotic,  earnest  priest,  and  he 
is  working  hard  to  create  a  tolerable  economic  situa- 
tion.    It  is  strange  that  he  does  not  understand  that 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  9 

a  desirable  social  life  is  as  necessary  as  a  tolerable 
economic  life.  There  is  no  political  freedom  either. 
A  pohtical  orthodoxy  dominates  this  country.  A 
poHtical  boss  has  been  able  to  suppress  the  Gaelic 
League  here.  Some  shop  assistants  who  presume 
to  belong  to  a  different  pohtical  organisation  have 
been  forced  to  leave  the  country.  It's  no  wonder 
American  becomes  an  idea — the  idea  of  freedom  and 
the  fulness  of  Hfe." 

The  Irish  country  town  is  harsh  and  ugly,  for  it 
has  been  built  by  people  who  are  still  in  the  pastoral 
stage.  The  street  is  wide  for  the  movement  of 
herds.  Four  out  of  every  five  are  pubHc-houses. 
In  the  depths  of  these  shops,  one  can  see  bacon  and 
boots,  reaping  machines,  and  sacks  of  hme.  One 
might  borrow  money  in  such  a  shop,  or  book  one's 
passage  to  America.  All  the  business  of  the  town 
is  parasitic,  if  we  except  the  harness-makers,  the 
coopers,  and  the  cart-builders.  The  people  in  their 
shops  grow  rich.  They  can  give  big  dowries  with 
their  daughters,  and  munificent  gifts  to  the  Church. 
These  traders  can  send  their  sons  and  daughters  to 
the  secondary  schools  and  the  University.  The 
only  other  people  in  Ireland  who  can  do  this  are  the 
Civil  servants  and  a  few  graziers. 

There  is  neither  fair  or  market  to-day,  and  the 
town  looks  dead.  Before  the  steps  of  the  Court- 
house three  or  four  men  are  standing  in  discussion ; 
their  appearance  is  provincial  rather  than  rural ; 
they  are  members  of  the  District  Comicil,  and  they 
had  a  meeting  to-day.  Tliree  or  four  young  men, 
Avho  have   a  certain  fierceness  of  aspect,   assemble 


10  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

near.  They  have  ash  plants  in  their  hands,  and  one 
might  guess  that  there  was  a  question  of  awarding 
labourers  cottages  at  the  meeting  to-day.  There 
is  a  discontented  party  within  the  labour  group  ; 
it  breaks  up,  and  the  men  part  shaking  ash  plants, 
and  shouting  threats  at  each  other. 

Besides  its  main  street,  the  town  has  its  bog  road. 
The  bog  road  goes  off  at  the  single  arm  of  a  sign-post. 
It  opens  to  the  brown  region  of  the  bog,  while  the 
main  street  leads  to  the  grazing  country.  In  the 
latter  street  the  houses  are  thatched,  and  some  show 
a  cup  and  saucer  in  the  window  as  a  sign  that  re- 
freshment is  provided.  Here  there  is  the  cart-builder's 
stall.  I  am  always  taken  by  the  round,  bright- 
coloured  wheels  that  are  soon  to  travel  on  the  road. 
They  stand  against  the  wall  of  the  house.  Inside 
the  stall  a  boy  has  his  bare  feet  in  the  shavings  and 
sawdust,  and  two  youths  are  daring  each  other  to 
lift  the  bar  of  the  axle.  The  cart  is  on  the  stocks, 
and  the  cart-maker  is  planing  its  timbers  ;  he  tells 
me  of  the  many  timbers  that  go  into  the  cart,  deal 
for  the  body,  and  larch  for  the  shafts ;  ash  for  the 
round  of  the  wheel,  and  oak  for  the  felloes. 

I  pass  by  one  of  the  hovels  that  are  disappearing 
from  the  country-side.  The  old,  dishevelled  man 
who  lived  in  it  is  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
We  talked  together  for  a  while.  He  told  me  his  age. 
"  Then,"  said  I,  "  you  remember  the  famine."  He 
turned  his  head  away.  "  The  famine,"  said  he,  "  God 
knows  I  remember  it."  I  shall  not  forget  the  look 
of  shame  and  distress  in  his  eyes.  He  had  heard  the 
bells  ring  in  the  Catholic  Chapel  for  the  first  time 


THE   ZITHER-PLAYER. 
(From  a  water-colour  drawing  by  Jack  B.  Yeats.     By  permission  of  the  artist.) 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  11 

since  the  penal  laws  were  put  in  force.  After  he  told 
me  that,  he  began  to  speak  vehemently.  As  a  young 
man  he  had  gone  once  to  one  of  the  great  demon- 
strations organised  by  O'Connell.  It  was  the  de- 
monstration at  Tara.  "  The  night  before,"  he  said, 
"  thirty  of  us  slept  in  the  one  bed — a  ploughed  field 
it  was.  We  thought  that  Dan  was  going  to  give  us 
a  word.  But  he  didn't  speak  it.  After  that  the 
heart  was  taken  out  of  the  country."  The  word 
that  the  men  of  Ireland  waited  for  that  day  was 
the  word  for  insurrection.  Had  O'Connell  given  it, 
a  hundred  thousand  Irishmen  might  have  been  shot 
down,  but  Ireland  would  have  something  braver 
to  tliink  of  now  than  the  misery  and  beggary  that 
followed  O'Connell's  retreat.  She  would  have  won 
her  Constitution  then,  and  not  Ireland  alone,  but  the 
bi-insular  group  would  have  been  stronger,  richer  and 
more  courageous,  because  of  the  adjustment  that 
would  have  followed  a  desperate  outbreak. 

It  was  dusk  when  we  came  to  the  house  where  the 
dance  was  to  be  held.  The  white  geese  lay  before 
the  black  turf-stack,  and  the  goats  stood  under  the 
upturned  cart.  We  went  into  the  unlighted  house. 
A  tall  girl  greeted  us.  I  did  not  see  her  face,  but  from 
the  fashion  of  her  clothes  I  guessed  she  was  an 
emigrant  returned  for  a  while.  Our  first  topic  was 
life  in  the  States.  The  girl  of  the  house  told  us  that 
in  America  she  used  to  go  to  Galway  festivities 
because  she  liked  the  Connacht  dances.  Abroad, 
our  people  are  held  together  by  kinship,  and  the 
family  group  extended  because  the  County  Associa- 
tion, which  is  the  Irish  social  organisation  in  America. 


12  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Tlie  girl  who  had  brought  me  to  the  house  was  also 
a  returned  emigrant ;  she  talked  humorously  about 
the  people  of  Clare  County.  "  They'd  like  you  to 
believe  that  the  wealth  of  the  world  was  in  their 
county,  and  that  they  only  went  abroad  to  see  the 
people."  The  girls  laughed ;  both  had  gone  to 
America  to  earn  their  dowries.  "  They  never  feed 
pigs  in  Clare  ;  oh  no,"  said  the  other  girl.  "  Here 
we  don't  believe  that  the  pig  gets  his  meal  properly 
unless  he  gets  it  by  the  fire."  "  I'd  never  say  that 
to  the  foreigners,"  said  the  other  girl.  "  The  Germans 
say  that  the  Irish  are  reared  amongst  pigs  and  horses. 
The  Germans  live  better  than  us,  but  they're  poor, 
too.  They  have  to  leave  their  country."  A  young 
man  who  came  in  just  then  talked  of  the  pig  with 
more  gravity.  He  could  make  forty  pounds  a  year 
by  keeping  two  sows,  he  told  me. 

Before  the  dance  the  people  kept  in  separate 
groups.  The  young  girls  sat  in  the  chimney-nook, 
and  the  men  stood  in  the  shadow.  A  couple  of  old 
people  sat  by  the  big  wooden  cradle.  There  were 
nearly  forty  people  in  a  room,  fourteen  feet  by  twelve. 
After  some  dances  in  the  kitchen,  we  shifted  to  the 
barn.  The  floor  was  damp,  but  we  danced  with 
great  energy.  The  dances  were  neither  graceful  nor 
elaborate.  I  had  heard  the  priest  denounce  these 
"  half -sets  "  as  importations  from  the  back-lanes 
of  Scotland.  The  boys  said  the  girls  did  not  approve 
of  the  Irish  dances  because  the  "  swinging  "  in  them 
was  not  vigorous  enough. 

Someone  once  told  me  that  the  bright-haired 
Milesian  type  was  disappearing  out  of  Ireland,  and 
that  the  surviving  Irish  type  would  be  Iberian  and 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  13 

dark -haired.  There  were  no  bright  heads  there. 
Man  after  man,  girl  after  girl,  was  dark  of  hair  and 
face.  The  barn,  lighted  by  the  guttering  candles, 
the  long  forms  with  various  groups  of  young  men 
and  women,  the  dancers  on  the  floor,  suggested  more 
than  one  of  Goya's  Caprices.  The  barn  was  Ughted 
by  candles  stuck  in  the  wall.  The  chickens  in  the 
corner  wakened  up  and  complained  in  the  soft  voices 
of  partridges.  The  dance  ended  while  it  was  still 
young  in  the  night.  Very  peaceably  we  returned 
across  the  country. 


CHAPTER  II 

RURAL   ECONOMY 

I.  The  Conquest  of  the  Land 

In  1879  there  was  a  failure  in  the  potato  crop  in 
Ireland.  The  failure  was  not  complete  as  in  1846, 
but  it  was  more  than  partial,  and  in  some  parts  of 
the  country  the  crop  was  less  than  one-fourth  that 
of  previous  years.  The  corn  crop  too  was  under 
the  average.  A  thrill  of  apprehension  went  through 
the  country  ;  the  horrors  of  the  famine  of  1846- 
47  were  still  remembered  ;  "  clearances  "  had  been 
carried  out,  and  further  "  clearances  "  were  threatened 
by  owners  of  property.  But  the  year  1879  does  not 
stand  for  disaster  in  Irish  agrarian  history.  Aid 
from  the  outside  was  forthcoming,  and  rehef  was 
prompt  and  well  organised.  Parnell  and  his  col- 
leagues formed  one  rehef  committee,  and  the  Duchess 
of  Marlborough  formed  another ;  money  came  in  ; 
it  was  subscribed  in  Ireland,  in  England  and  Scotland, 
in  places  abroad,  and  especially  in  the  United  States. 
From  February  till  late  in  August,  rehef  was  dis- 
tributed to  those  who  had  need  of  it ;  as  much  as 
six  stone  of  meal  in  the  week  was  given  to  house- 
holds in  which  the  family  was  large,  as  little  as  one 
stone  in  the  week  was  given  to  the  old  man  or  the 
old  woman  hving  in  a  hut  alone. 

The  disease  that  follows  scarcity  broke  out ;   flour 

14 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  15 

and  necessary  nourishment  were  granted  to  house- 
holds in  which  there  were  cases.  Late  in  the  crisis 
Parhament  enacted  measures  for  further  help  ;  re- 
hef  works  were  undertaken,  and  facilities  and  powers 
for  borrowing  money  were  granted  to  landlords 
and  to  Boards  of  Guardians  ;  the  landlords  were  to 
expend  in  improving  their  estates,  and  the  Boards 
of  Guardians  in  purchasing  seeds.  With  seed  avail- 
able, the  fatality  certain  to  follow  on  a  year  of  failure 
was  averted.  A  farmer  whose  valuation  was  £15  or 
under,  might  obtain  for  seed  a  hundred  of  potatoes 
and  fourteen  stone  of  oats  ;  for  these  he  was  debited 
with  a  sum  which  he  repaid  in  four  instalments  of 
£1,  4s.  6d. 

In  our  every-day  potatoes  we  have  a  momento  of 
the  crisis  of  1879  ;  the  Board  of  Guardians  went  to 
Scotland  for  the  new  seed ;  the  "  champion " 
potatoes  was  brought  over  to  us  ;  in  two  years  no 
other  potatoes  but  the  "  champion  "  was  planted. 

The  year  1879  marks  an  epoch  in  our  agrarian 
history.  Its  hunger  gave  force  to  a  movement  which 
was  to  destroy  landlordism.  On  the  other  hand,  its 
misery  and  beggary  produced  a  depression  the 
effects  of  which  still  remain. 

In  1879  the  tenant  farmers  had  obtained  a  certain 
security  of  tenure,  but  the  rents  they  were  com- 
pelled to  pay  were  exorbitant.  The  people  had  been 
forced  back  to  scramble  for  a  livehhood  on  the  land, 
and  they  were  prepared  to  bargain  for  the  soil  as 
people  in  a  besieged  city  bargain  for  bread.  When 
a  landlord  turned  out  a  tenant,  he  could  always  get 
two  others  to  bargain  for  the  holding.  The  rents 
paid  were  competitive,  and  often  they  were  made  up 


16  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

by  wages  earned  in  England  and  Scotland,  or  by 
money  sent  home  from  America.  The  pinch  of 
famine  forced  the  people  to  claim  abatements  in 
rents,  and  the  landlord  who  refused  such  claims 
got  no  rents  at  all  that  year.  The  Land  League  had 
been  established  ;  now  the  agitation  was  carried  into 
every  district  in  Ireland,  and  the  man  who  had  stood 
without  a  coat  on  his  back,  waiting  for  the  charity 
meal,  now  asserted  his  right  to  the  earth  he  tilled, 
and  the  fruits  thereof.  Meanwhile  the  inteUigent 
people  of  the  County  jMayo  had  discovered  a  weapon 
which  proved  effective  against  the  landlord  who  was 
ready  to  evict,  and  the  land  grabber  who  was  ready 
to  take  over  the  tenant's  holding.  Their  discovery 
is  named  after  Captain  Boycott,  who  was  the  first 
to  have  experience  of  the  new  interdict.  He  made 
the  people  of  Ireland  familiar  with  this  wise  and 
simple  social  operation  by  a  letter  written  with  the 
object  of  making  material  for  a  new  Coercion  Act. 
Landlordism  was  now  attacked  with  resolution  and 
intelligence.  The  year  1881  marked  an  advance 
towards  tenant  liberation.  In  that  year  an  act 
was  passed  through  which  gave  the  tenant  his  land 
at  a  "  fair  "  and  not  at  a  competitive  rent. 

But  the  land  agitation  went  on.  The  year  1903 
closed  the  epoch  of  revolution.  The  Act  passed  in 
that  year  enables  the  tenant  to  purchase  his  holding. 
The  landlord  is  paid  in  cash  from  the  Treasury,  and 
the  tenants  pay  back  the  purchase  price  in  annuities 
extending  over  sixty  years.  Meantime  the  whole 
of  Ireland  is  in  pawn  for  the  amount  involved  in 
the  transfer  of  the  land.  Sixty  milUons  of  money 
has  been  already  expended,  and  one  hundred  and 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  17 

twenty  milKons  more  will  be  expended  in  completing 
the  transfer.  The  money  is  being  raised  on  the 
security  of  the  British  Treasury,  but  every  penny  of 
the  hundred  and  eighty  milhons  is  being  debited 
to  Ireland. 


II.  La  Terre  qui  Meurt 


/ 


Let  us  go  back  again  to  the  year  1879.     When 

those   who   remembered    '46   and    '47   looked    upon 

wasted  fields  again,  they  thought  it  plain  that  the 

will  of  God  was  against  the  people  of  Ireland.     They 

instructed    their    children    to    beUeve    that    Ireland 

was  a  woeful  land,  and  that  any  country  under  the 

sun  was  better  than  the  place  they  were  born  in. 

The  young  saw  the  crowds  standing  outside  the  house 

where  the  Relief  Committee  met.     "  The  Irish  spirit, 

so  much  lauded,  was  completely  broken  down,"  writes 

a   friend  who    had   assisted    at   such   scenes,   "  and 

the   people  appeared  like  menials."      These  scenes 

of   beggary   and   misery   were   impressed   upon   the 

minds   of  the  younger  generation.     The  mother  of 

fine  girls  proclaimed  loudly  that  they  were  starving 

at  home,  and  the  father  of  stalwart  sons  stood  in 

a  snow-storm,  in  his  bare  feet,  and  without  a  coat 

on  his  back.     One  may  be  sure  that  the  pot  boiling 

with  the  charity  meal  was  not  forgotten  by  growing 

boys   and   girls.     And   from  the  other  side  of   the 

Atlantic  friends  calhng  to  them  to  leave  the  beggarly 

land.     The  hope  of  every  boy  and  girl  was  to  get 

away.     My  elders  tell  me  of  a  parish  priest  who  used 

to  say,  "  Now,  boys  and  girls,  there's  a  good  crop  of 

B 


18  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

potatoes,  and  let  me  see  that  I'll  be  making  a  good 
many  marriages."  That  was  before  '79.  After- 
wards the  people  did  not  take  hfe  in  that  easy  way. 
For  years  after  the  marriage  register  in  our  parish 
was  a  blank.  Emigration  became  an  exodus  ;  life 
on  the  land  became  something  to  resent,  the  agricul- 
tural lore  and  the  tradition  of  good  labour  lapsed. 
Abnormal  emigration,  abandonment  of  tillage,  con- 
tempt for  agricultarul  employment ;  these  are  the 
effects  of  the  depression  of  1879. 


III.  Land  and  Labour 

The  settlement  of  the  labourer  has  gone  with  the 
settlement  of  the  tenant  farmer,  and  as  a  result  of 
a  series  of  enactments,  beginning  in  1883,  we  have 
in  every  district  in  Ireland,  scores  of  neat  cottages 
with  garden  allotment.  The  Irish  agricultural 
labourer  can  now  obtain  a  cottage  with  three  rooms, 
a  piggery,  a  garden  allotment  of  an  acre  or  half  an 
acre,  and  for  this  he  is  charged  a  rent  of  from  one 
to  two  shilhngs  per  week.  The  expense  of  building 
the  cottage,  and  of  providing  the  garden  allotment 
that  goes  with  them,  is  incurred  by  the  Rural  District 
Council.  The  Secretary  of  the  Department  of  Agri- 
culture, recently  reminded  the  labourers  that  half 
their  rents  were  paid  for  them  by  the  rate-payers 
and  the  tax-payers  of  Ireland.  Over  three  and  a 
half  milhons  have  been  expended  so  far  on  these 
cottages  and  allotments,  and  a  great  deal  more 
money  is  forthcoming. 

On  the  whole,  these  cottages  by  the  wayside  give 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  19 

a  hopeful  aspect  to  the  country.  They  are  neat, 
well-built,  and  sanitary,  and  compare  favourably 
with  the  old  mud- walled  and  mud-floored  cabins. 

The  labourer  of  the  new  dispensation  begins  out- 
side the  bad  tradition  which  forbade  a  display  of 
taste  about  a  house.  Flowers  are  before  the  door 
of  the  new  cottages,  and  there  are  creepers  upon 
the  walls.  The  labourer  can  keep  pigs,  poultry  and 
a  goat,  and  grow  his  potatoes  and  vegetables  in  his 
garden  allotment.  Generally  speaking,  his  acre  or 
half-acre  is  well  cultivated. 

In  relation  to  the  agricultural  interest  the  situation 
of  the  labourer's  cottage  is  not  satisfactory.  In 
Scotland  the  agricultural  labourer  is  directly  associ- 
ated with  the  farm  upon  which  he  works.  He  hves 
within  its  gates,  its  problems  and  possibilities  are 
constantly  before  his  mind,  and  from  the  time  when 
they  can  open  a  gate,  his  children  are  in  the  way  of 
becoming  intimate  with  the  manifold  business  of 
agriculture.  With  us,  the  labourer's  connection 
with  the  farm  is  intermittent ;  the  farms  are  small, 
and,  for  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  they  are  worked 
by  the  farmer  and  his  family.  The  labourer's  children 
grow  up,  not  inside  a  farm-stead,  but  upon  the  road- 
way, and  they  miss  that  which  should  be  in  the  mind 
of  a  good  agriculturist  before  he  is  fifteen  —  that 
which  makes  a  great  part  of  his  wisdom — an  intimacy 
with  cattle  and  horses  and  the  stock  of  a  farm. 
We  have  not  the  good  agricultural  labourers  that 
we  once  had.  The  minds  of  the  people  have  been 
turned  away  from  the  land,  tillage  has  not  been 
developed,  and  our  young  labourers  have  not  had 
the   opportunity   of   acquiring  the   full   lore   of  the 


20  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

agriculturist.  An  instance  given  by  Mr  T.  P.  Gill, 
makes  us  realise  how  far  we  have  departed  from 
friendship  with  agriculture.  In  the  Agricultural 
Training  School  for  the  Midlands,  Ballyhaise,  Co. 
Cavan,  the  Department  has  been  forced  to  introduce 
milking  machines  for  the  dairy  cattle — the  girls  can 
no  longer  be  got  to  do  the  milking. 

The  labourer  \nt\i  us  obtains  from  9s.  to  12s.  per 
week  at  intermittent  work.  When  times  are  urgent 
he  takes  a  higher  wage.  If  you  speak  to  him  about 
the  labourer,  the  farmer  will  insist  tliat  he  is  not 
worthy  of  his  hire.  He  will  not  put  heart  into  a 
day's  work,  he  will  come  one  day,  and  stay  away 
another,  he  will  break  off  in  the  middle  of  the  day 
and  not  come  back  to  the  field  again.  If  you  speak 
about  the  Irish  labourer  to  a  farmer  in  England  or 
Scotland,  you  will  hear  a  more  pleasant  account. 
About  25,000  Irish  labourers  work  in  England,  and 
Scotland  for  several  months  of  the  year.  The 
farmers  of  Scotland  and  England  give  a  good  accoimt 
of  the  quality  of  the  migratory  labour.  A  Scottish 
agriculturist,  Mr  Munro  Ferguson  says  : — 

"  In  the  East  of  Scotland  a  great  part  of  the 
agricultural  work  is  done  by  workers  from  Ireland, 
who  come  over,  mostly  from  Mayo  and  Sligo.  They 
are  the  best  workers  that  we  know — extraordinary 
conscientious  workers.  We  are  supposed  to  work 
fairly  hard  in  Scotland,  but  I  heard  one  of  my  best 
tenants  say.  that  he  Hked  to  have  one  or  two  Irish- 
men about  him  to  keep  his  men  up  to  the  mark."  ^ 

What  is  the  reason  for  the  contrast  between  the 
slackness  at  home,  and  the  strenuousness  abroad  ? 

'  Quoted  by  Mr  Gill  in  bis  pamphlet. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  21 

Mr  Gill  implies  that  better  wages  (20s.  to  25s.  per 
week)  supplies  the  motive  for  the  better  service.  But 
I  would  take  it  upon  myself  to  say,  that  with  present 
conditions,  a  farmer  in  Ireland  who  paid  his  labourers 
at  the  Scotch  and  English  rate,  would  not  get  the 
labour  out  of  the  men  that  the  Scotch  or  English 
farmer  gets.  It  is  good  living  that  gives  the  impulse 
for  good  work.  In  Scotland  or  in  England  the 
labourer  is  well  nourished.  In  Ireland  he  is  hardly 
nourished  at  all.  The  labourer  who  comes  to  an 
Irish  farmer,  begins  his  day  with  a  breakfast  of 
bread  and  tea.  He  comes  back  from  the  field  to  a 
dinner  of  potatoes,  cabbage  and  Russian  bacon. 
Tea  is  sent  down  to  the  fields  to  him.  He  needs  the 
stimulus  of  tea  again,  or  else  he  feels  that  he  needs 
porter.  A  man  cannot  do  a  good  day's  work  upon 
this  hardly  nourishing  diet.  The  farmer  feeds  himself 
and  his  family  as  badly  as  he  feeds  the  labourer. 
White  bread  and  tea  for  breakfast,  potatoes,  cabbage 
and  foreign  bacon  for  dinner,  and  tea  again,  again 
and  again.  The  price  of  eggs  is  now  so  good  that 
few  farmers  will  keep  them  for  their  household,  and 
as  the  creameries  take  over  the  milk,  churning  is 
not  done  in  the  house,  and  buttermilk  may  not  be  got. 
Almost  everyone  in  Ireland  is  badly  fed,  and  this 
is  not  because  food  is  scarce,  but  because  food  is 
overlooked.  A  farmer  will  start  for  the  Fair  at  an 
early  hour  in  the  morning,  having  taken  for  breakfast 
only  tea  and  bread.  He  will  stay  at  the  Fair  all 
day  without  taking  a  meal,  but  stimulating  his 
energies  with  two  or  three  glasses  of  whisky.  If 
you  meet  him  in  the  evening,  the  man  will  appear 
drunk.     Day  after  day  he  takes  the  same  dinner ; 


22  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

potatoes,  cabbage,  American  or  Russian  bacon. 
Soup  is  never  made  in  his  house,  and  cabbage  is  the 
only  vegetable  grown  for  his  household.  There  is 
no  longer  the  supply  of  milk  and  butter  that  there 
used  to  be,  when  the  churning  was  done  in  the  house. 
The  people  have  ceased  to  make  porridge  for  break- 
fast and  supper.  Tea  is  taken  at  every  hour  in  the 
day.  In  the  country  towns,  one  cannot  get  proper 
food  properly  cooked,  the  ordinary  dinner  served  to 
men  in  the  eating-house  is  a  hard  beef-steak  with 
bread  and  tea.  Formerly  the  people  lived  on  milk 
and  potatoes,  and  their  good  looks  and  vigour 
impressed  writers  so  different  as  Borrow  and  the 
Rev.  Mr  Hall.  "  How  is  it  you  have  so  many  fine 
children  ?  "  says  the  lady  mentioned  in  "  Hall's 
Tour,"  "  An't  please  your  ladyship's  noble  honour 
w^e  blame  the  potatoes,"  said  the  peasant  woman. 
In  those  days  when  a  man  came  from  the  fields,  he 
put  some  handfuls  of  meal  in  a  quart  of  buttermilk 
and  drank  it  off.  Now  he  takes  a  mug  of  long-drawn 
tea — "  tea  so  strong  that  it  would  brand  a  lamb," 
as  the  people  say.  Pork,  butter,  milk,  and  eggs  are 
sold  and  the  people  buy  foreign  bacon,  bread  made 
from  American  flour,  and  tea  at  as  high  a  price  as 
3s.  4d.  per  lb.  The  want  of  nourishment  more  than 
climate  is  behind  that  lack  of  force  that  is  noticeable 
in  Irish  life. 

The  raising  of  store  cattle  bulks  as  the  largest 
industry  connected  with  Irish  land.  But  in  1905, 
the  value  of  eggs,  poultry,  bacon,  and  dairy  produce 
exported,  exceeded  the  value  of  cattle  raised  in  this 
wasteful  wa}^  Butter-making  is  in  the  way  of  be- 
coming the  most  important  Irish  industry,   but  it 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  23 

is  interrupted  because  Irish  butter-making  ceases 
about  September.  Next  year  the  Irish  farmers  have 
to  conquer  the  English  markets  again,  going  into 
competition  with  the  Danish  farmers,  who  hold  their 
markets  all  the  year  round.  The  creation  of  winter 
dairying  is  the  main  problem  before  Irish  agricul- 
turists. It  has  to  be  done  by  the  farmers  keeping 
a  batch  of  cattle  to  calve  in  the  winter,  and 
by  feeding  his  cattle  ^^ith  root  crops.  This  will 
necessitate  tillage  and  labour.  Increased  tillage 
would  mean  labourers  employed  all  the  year  round, 
probably  at  better  pay,  and  it  would  mean  a 
check  upon  emigration.  The  Department  is  making 
experiments  with  the  object  of  showing  farmers  that 
winter-dairying  would  pay,  and  the  Agricultural 
Organisation  Society  are  interesting  their  groups 
of  the  co-operators  in  the  subject.  So  far,  the 
farmers  and  labourers  have  not  wakened  up  to  the 
possibilities. 


IV.    The  Reconstruction  of  Rural  Life 

A  rise  in  foreign  competition  and  an  increase  in 
the  cost  of  Hving  ;  an  absence  of  tillage,  a  lack  of 
skill  and  method  with  farmer  and  with  labourer ; 
an  enormous  charge  against  the  country  on  account 
of  land  purchase  and  the  labour  settlement :  a 
student  of  Irish  affairs  might  express  a  dread  of 
bankruptcy  when  he  considers  these.  But  there  are 
factors  making  for  solvency  and  economic  progress. 
To  begin  with,  the  purchase  of  the  holding  has  a 
moral  effect  upon  the  people.    A  man  owns  a  property 


24  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

that  he  can  pass  on  to  his  son  and  his  grandson, 
and  the  tendency  of  human  nature  is  to  improve 
such.  The  struggle  against  the  dual  ownership  of 
the  land  is  over,  the  people  have  attained  a  great 
sobriety.  The  arrival  of  peasant  proprietorship 
has  found  the  country  equipped  with  two  valuable 
agencies  for  the  improvement  of  rural  business ;  the 
first  of  these  is  a  State  department,  the  Department 
of  Agricultural  and  Technical  Instruction,  the  second 
is  a  voluntary  association — the  Irish  Agricultural 
Organisation  Society. 

In  August  1896,  there  was  handed  to  Mr  Gerald 
Balfour,  then  Chief  Secretary  for  Ireland,  a  docu- 
ment called  the  Report  of  the  Recess  Committee. 
An  accompan3dng  letter  informed  the  chief  that  the 
Recess  Committee  ■  had  its  origin  in  an  invitation 
which  Mr  Horace  Plunket  had  issued  the  year  before 
to  a  number  of  members  of  Parliament  and  other 
Irishmen  of  various  political  opinions,  to  meet  for 
the  discussion  of  any  measure  for  the  good  of  Ireland, 
upon  which  all  parties  might  be  found  in  agreement. 
The  Committee  recommended  that  a  government 
Department  should  be  created  to  foster  agriculture, 
and  that  the  branches  of  agriculture,  industries,  and 
technical  instruction  should  be  under  the  care  of  this 
Department.  The  constitution  of  the  proposed 
Department,  was  laid  down  in  the  document  pre- 
sented. This  Report  of  the  Recess  Committee  w^as 
accepted  by  Mr  Gerald  Balfour  as  the  basis  of  the 
legislation  which  he  added  to  his  other  important 
measure,  the  Local  Government  Act  of  1898.  The 
deliberation  of  the  Committee  is  now  established  in 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  25 

the  Department  of  Agriculture  and  Technical  In- 
struction. It  is  the  only  department  in  Ireland 
that  contains  an  element  of  popular  control. 

The  problem  before  the  newly-established  depart- 
ment was  indicated  in  the  opening  of  the  Recess 
Committee's  Report.^  Ireland  is  dependent  on 
agriculture,  but  its  soil  is  imperfectly  tilled,  the  area 
under  cultivation  is  decreasing,  and  the  diminishing 
population  is  without  industrial  habits  or  technical 
skiU.  Before  the  days  of  steam,  Ireland  was  a  rival 
of  Great  Britain  in  commerce  and  in  manufacture. 
Through  hostile  legislation,  Great  Britain  struck 
at  all  her  industries  not  excepting  agriculture.  The 
population  was  forced  into  entire  dependence  on  the 
land  and  the  country  was  reduced  to  an  economic 
condition  involving  periodic  famines.  The  more 
energetic  elements  of  the  population  were  driven  to 
emigrate,  carrying  their  skill  to  foreign  countries  and 
of  those  who  remained  behind,  the  larger  portion 
were  subjected  to  the  bad  influences  of  the  penal 
laws.  "  It  is  impossible  to  believe,"  says  the  Report, 
"  that  bad  as  our  present  situation  is,  both  in  in- 
dustrial habits  and  industrial  wealth,  it  is  not  worse 
than  might  have  been  produced  in  any  country  by 
such  legislation  as  that  to  which  we  refer." 

The  Department  is  now  in  being  for  about  fourteen 
years.  It  influences  the  farmer  directly  through 
the  County  Councils.  They  raise  a  rate  in  aid  of 
Agriculture  and  Technical  instruction,  and  employ 
instructors  recommended  by  the  Department.     The 

^  A  new  edition  has  been  issued.  (Dublin :  Brown  &  Nolan  ; 
London  :  T.  Fisher  Unwin).  The  Report  of  the  Recess  Committee 
has  not  merely  an  historical  interest.  It  remains  a  valuable  work 
on  the  resources  of  Ireland. 


26  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

instructors  lecture  on  agriculture,  horticulture, 
poultry-raising ;  they  visit  farms  and  talk  with  the 
farmers.  Ireland  has  now  a  well-organised  system 
of  rural  instruction. 

What  is  the  attitude  of  the  farmers  to  the  in- 
structors sent  into  their  parish  ?  They  resent  their 
coming  because  rates  had  been  raised  to  pay  salaries 
to  the  lecturers.  But  their  first  unpopularity  has 
passed  away  and  the  instruction  given  is  beginning  to 
have  effect.  The  farmers  are  beginning  to  amend 
their  methods.  Potatoes  are  sprayed  and  fields  are 
top-dressed  with  more  thoroughness.  Better  manures 
are  being  used.  The  farmers,  young  and  old  are 
becoming  more  alert  to  ideas. 

Going  through  the  Midlands,  one  notes  that  the 
best  cultivation  is  before  the  new  labourer's  cottage, 
or  on  the  holding  occupied  by  a  retired  policeman, 
postman  or  schoolmaster.  These  people  have  come 
to  agriculture  with  fresh  interest :  they  are  out  of 
the  old  rut.  The  work  of  the  Department  will 
enable  the  farmers  of  Ireland  to  re-discover  agricul- 
ture. Behind  the  County  Council's  schemes  is  a 
fine  organisation  and  the  new  and  splendidly  equipped 
College  of  Science  in  Dublin.  In  each  province 
there  is  a  school  of  agriculture  to  which  farmers  can 
send  their  sons  :  the  fee  charged  is  proportionate 
to  the  valuation  of  his  holding.  When  young  men 
trained  in  these  schools  begin  to  apply  their  know- 
ledge and  their  methods  at  home,  the  farming  in  the 
district  will  be  greatly  improved.  But  as  yet  the 
farmer's  sons  have  not  taken  full  advantage  of  the 
training  offered  them  in  such  schools. 


,    o 

o   -S 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  27 

The  creation  of  a  social  order  of  rural  Ireland — 
that  is  the  design  apparent  in  the  work  of  the  Irish 
Agricultural  Organisation  Society.  "  A  social  order 
should  provide  for  three  things,"  says  the  prophet 
of  the  organisation  movement,  Mr  George  Russell, 
"  for  economic  development,  for  poUtical  stability, 
for  a  desirable  social  Hfe."  ^  In  rural  Ireland  there 
has  been  no  social  order,  since  the  clan  system  with 
its  sentiments  of  loyalty  and  kindness,  its  realities 
of  service  and  protection  was  destroyed. 

The  nucleus  of  the  new  order  is  a  group  of  farmers 
co-operating  for  a  creamery  or  a  rural  Bank,  for  the 
sale  of  eggs  or  the  preparation  of  flax.     Through  the 

energy  of  Father  K a  co-operative  creamery  has 

just  been  established  in  our  parish.  The  capital  for 
the  machinery,  the  building,  etc.,  was  subscribed 
in  the  district.  It  was  inevitable  that  a  couple  of 
farmer-shopkeepers  should  take  over  a  good  deal  of 
the  management.  They  subscribed  a  large  portion 
of  the  capital  and  they  have  what  the  farmers  lack, 
a  business  training,  a  familiarity  with  accounts. 
But  their  immediate  interest  is  not  in  the  develop- 
ment of  the  full  co-operative  idea,  and  I  am  not 
surprised  to  learn  that,  for  the  present,  there  is  not 
to  be  an  egg-centre  in  connection  with  the  creamery, 
and  that  the  co-operative  group  is  not  to  become 
a  medium  for  the  direct  purchase  of  seeds,  machinery 
and  manures.  However,  as  the  co-operative  centre 
develops  these  restrictions  must  be  broken  down. 

The  establishment  for  creamery  has  noticeable 
effects  on   the  people  of  a  district.     I  will  try  to 

^ '^'^  Co-operation  and  Nationality,"  by  Geo.  W.  Russell.  Dublin: 
Maunsel  &  Co. 


28  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

state  some  of  them  from  the  point  of  view  of  the 
small  farmer,  of  the  man  with  two  or  three  cows. 
As  I  have  said  already,  the  peasant  is  by  habit  badly 
nourished  ;  milk  and  butter  are  the  staple  provisions 
of  his  house.  When  the  man  with  two  or  three 
cows  sends  to  the  creamery,  he  has  only  Saturday 
night's  and  Sunday's  milk.  This  is  not  sufficient 
for  the  household,  and  the  children  come  short  of 
their  nourishment.  With  four  or  five  cattle,  the 
milk  of  Saturday  night  and  Sunday  would  give  a 
churning  after  the  creamery  had  been  supplied. 
The  profits  from  co-operation  may  enable  him  to 
add  to  his  stock,  and  the  organisation  movement 
may  bring  him  into  the  very  profitable  business  of 
dairying  all  the  year  round.  The  connection  with  the 
creamery  has  a  moral  effect  on  the  small  farmer's  house 
— it  entails  a  strict  discipline  and  cleanliness,  and  it 
produces  sure  returns  at  the  end  of  each  dairying 
month.  These  things  tend  to  make  the  farm-house 
a  business  place.  Tlie  richer  farmer  gets  a  more 
ample  return  :  the  economy  of  his  household  is  not 
disturbed  by  sending  out  the  milk  ;  he  gets  a  good 
price,  and  as  he  also  gets  his  share  in  the  profits  of 
the  creamery,  the  development  of  the  co-operative 
society  gives  him  opportunities  for  good  investments, 
and  his  connection  with  the  business  side  of  it  fits 
him  to  deal  with  public  affairs.  The  labourer  gets 
nothing  out  of  the  co-operative  movement  as  appHed 
to  dairying  ;  indeed  he  is  at  a  loss  by  it,  as  the  butter 
and  milk  which  he  used  to  get  as  payment  in  kind 
from  the  farmers,  is  now  diminished.  But  the 
development  of  the  co-operative  idea  may  produce 
co-operative   grazing,  and    this    would    be    a    great 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  29 

boon  to  the  labourers.  As  to  the  farmer-shop- 
keepers, their  connection  with  the  co-operative  move- 
ment is  important,  and  I  will  dwell  upon  it  in  another 
page. 

So  far,  the  co-operative  society  as  it  affects  in- 
dividuals. As  the  group  gains  capital  and  experience, 
the  society  extends  its  operations.  A  Rural  Bank 
is  formed,  cheese-making  goes  with  butter-making, 
the  society  takes  up  the  collection  and  the  sale  of 
eggs,  it  purchases  directly,  manure,  seeds  and 
machinery  for  its  members,  and  it  soon  has  sufficient 
funds  to  build  a  village  hall.  And  now  a  bond  holds 
the  people  together — the  very  real  bond  of  economic 
interest ;  the  community  as  a  whole  becomes  eager 
about  the  development  of  its  resources  and  a  good 
administration  of  its  business  ;  the  man  that  sends 
poor  milk  to  the  creamery,  and  the  man  who  will 
not  mind  his  affairs  sufficiently  well  to  pay  off  the 
instalment  due  at  the  Rural  Bank,  soon  find  that 
pubHc  opinion  is  against  them.  The  district  societies 
Unk  themselves  into  federation  for  purchase  and 
sale,  and  through  these  the  farmers  are  able  to  act 
on  the  markets.  About  a  hundred  thousand  country 
people  are  members  of  the  co-operative  societies, 
and  their  trade  turn-over  this  year  will  be  about 
three  million  pounds. 

"  In  a  few  years'  time,"  says  Mr  Russell,  "  instead 
of  the  dislocation  and  separation  of  interests  which 
have  been  so  disastrous  in  its  effects,  instead  of 
innumeral  petty  businesses  all  striving  for  their 
own  rather  than  for  the  general  welfare,  there  will  be 
in  each  parish  one  large  association  able  to  pay  well 
for  expert  management,  with  complete  control  over 


30  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

all  processes  of  purchase,  manufacture  and  sale." 
There  are  powerful  interests  ready  to  oppose  this 
design.  The  Irish  country  traders  do  not  deal 
merely  in  tea,  bacon,  meal,  flour  and  porter ;  they 
sell  manures,  seeds,  farm  implements ;  they  lend 
money,  and  they  barter  goods  for  eggs  and  butter. 
The  small  farmers  of  Ireland  are,  in  a  phrase  they 
would  use  themselves,  "  drowned  in  debt  "  to  them. 
The  farmers  never  know  how  much  they  really  owe 
the  traders,  and  to  be  told  that  they  have  been  charged 
£3  per  ton  for  manure  worth  6s.  per  ton,  does  not 
startle  them  into  revolt.  The  trader  in  a  country 
district  has  great  influence.  He  controls  large 
capital,  he  owns  farms,  he  is  on  the  district  council, 
and  the  county  council,  on  the  committee  of  the 
co-operative  society,  he  is  prominent  in  the  local 
branch  of  the  United  Irish  League,  he  is  patron  to 
many  clients.  As  members  of  the  District  and 
County  Councils,  the  traders  have  a  strong  repre- 
sentation on  the  Council  of  Agriculture.  This  year 
there  was  question  of  a  sum  of  money  being  made 
over  to  the  Irish  Agricultural  Society  from  the 
Development  Commissioners.  But  the  Council  of 
Agriculture  advised  the  Vice-President  of  the  Depart- 
ment (Mr  T.  W.  Russell)  not  to  support  the  apph'ca- 
tion  of  the  Agricultural  Organisation  Society.  The 
traders  of  Ireland  had  sufficient  pohtical  influence 
to  make  the  Vice-President  of  the  Department  of 
Agriculture  declare  for  "  non-controversal  co-opera- 
tion," that  is  co-operation  that  will  not  liinder  the 
trader  from  selUng  seeds  and  manures  to  his 
dependents,  the  small  farmers. 

What  it  never  had,  it  never  lost,  and  the  failure 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  31 

of  the  Agricultural  Organisation  Society  to  obtain 
funds  for  the  promotion  of  agricultural  co-operation 
will  not  injure  its  work.  But  distinctly  it  is  a  bad 
thing  for  the  country  there  should  be  rivalry  between 
a  great  State  Department  and  an  important  volun- 
tary association.  The  Irish  parliamentary  party 
nominally  represents  the  agrarian  interest,  but  it 
really  represents  the  trading  interest ;  it  is  the 
traders  who  select  the  candidates  and  subscribe  to 
the  party  funds.  In  the  crisis  they  were  able  to  use 
the  machinery  of  the  party  against  the  Organisation 
Society.  As  the  farmers  of  Ireland  find  their  interest 
more  and  more  bound  up  with  the  co-operative  idea, 
they  will  be  forced  to  exact  pledges  for  the  local 
council  or  for  the  national  legislature,  or  else  will 
have  to  create  a  party  representing  definitely  the 
agricultural  interest;  this  will  have  political  con- 
sequences. In  an  Irish  legislature,  the  democratic 
party  will  be  divided  by  this. 

Immediate  self-interest  hardens  the  country  trader 
against  agricultural  co-operation.  A  wider  view, 
however,  would  show  him  that  his  interests  are  bound 
up  with  the  interests  of  a  prospering  community.  In 
a  well  organised  district,  the  country  trader  would 
not  lend  money  or  sell  manures  or  seeds,  but  he 
would  be  a  member  of  a  society  that  would  have 
many  ways  of  turning  profits.  His  knowledge  and 
his  training  would  give  him  a  position,  and  a  develop- 
ment of  the  district  resources  would  permit  a  good 
investment  for  the  idle  money  which  the  country 
shopkeeper  generally  has  by  him. 

Ireland,  when  she  strives  from  her  own  wiU,  shows 
a   remarkable   tendency   to   return   to   national   in- 


32  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

stitutions.  The  temporary  expedient  of  boycotting, 
for  instance,  reproduced  the  ultimate  punishment 
in  Gaelic  law,  the  interdict  which  left  a  persistent 
offender  a  prisoner  at  large.  The  land  struggle 
came  from  an  economic  necessity,  no  doubt,  but 
behind  the  struggle,  making  it  revolutionary,  there 
was  the  memory  of  the  Gaelic  law  that  refused  to 
recognise  the  possibiHty  of  lordship  in  the  land. 
The  design  for  a  social  order  in  Ireland  is  hopeful, 
because  in  co-operation  it  reproduces  another  typical 
institution.  A  district  organised  for  the  building 
up  of  a  livehhood  and  a  culture,  restores  the  communal 
life  of  Gaelic  times,  and  the  co-operative  organisa- 
tions, Knking  themselves  on  to  larger  federation, 
are  the  old  clan  system  stated  in  economic  terms. 
The  co-operative  movement  has  been  successful  in 
Ireland  because  there  were  memories,  characteristics 
and  traditions,  that  made  it  intelligible  to  the  people. 
Mutual  aid  in  our  time  was  a  factor  in  the  economic 
life  of  the  Irish  cottage,  and  a  house  wanting  a  par- 
ticular piece  of  work  done  could  get  scores  of  hands 
from  the  neighbours.  Such  a  party  is  called 
"  Meitheal  "  ("  mahil ").  In  our  part  of  the  country 
the  tradition  of  mutual  aid  survives  in  the  mahils 
for  out  of  door  work,  turf-cutting  generally. 


V.    Emigration 

This  is  a  country  of  small  farms.  There  are  many 
holdings  of  fifty  acres  and  above  it,  and  there  are 
several  grazing  ranches  of  some  hundreds  of  acres 
each,  but  the  fifteen  to  twenty  acres  farm  is  repre- 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  33 

sentative,  and  the  household  existing  upon  it  is  the 
typical  household. 

In  such  a  household  there  are,  say,  five  children — 
three  sons  and  two  daughters  or  three  daughters  and 
two  sons.  For  the  purpose  of  illustration  I  will 
take  the  case  of  a  farmer  with  three  sons  and  two 
daughters.  Let  us  call  them,  Pat,  Michael,  John, 
Mary,  and  Bridget. 

Pat  is  heir  apparent  to  the  farm,  and  his  future  is 
secure.  Mary  is  the  eldest  girl  and  is  entitled  to  a 
dowry  of  about  £100.  The  father  will  provide  this 
by  saving  part  and  by  borrowing  part  on  the  security 
of  the  farm.  Mary  with  her  dowry  gets  a  husband. 
Pat  and  Mary  are  thus  provided  for. 

Three  children  are  left — Michael,  John,  and  Bridget. 
IMichael's  share  of  the  farm  when  he  comes  to  man's 
estate  will  be  a  £10  note,  for  Pat  cannot  afford  any 
more.  Pat  will  marry  a  girl  with  a  dowry,  but 
part  of  her  dowry  must  go  to  paying  off  the  debt  on 
the  farm  and  giving  Michael  his  share.  As  he  cannot 
have  the  farm  nor  money  to  buy  a  farm,  Michael  must 
try  to  get  a  "  position  "  ;  in  order  to  get  a  "  position  " 
he  must  have  education,  and  the  education  is  given 
him  that  he  may  become  (1)  A  priest  on  the  foreign 
mission;  (2)  a  national  school  teacher;  (3)  a  con- 
stabulary man;  (4)  a  shop  assistant  in  the  town. 
One  of  these  careers  an  Irish  farmer  always  designs 
for  his  second  son.  He  would  not  dream  of  making 
him  a  tradesman,  mainly  for  the  reason  that  a  trades- 
man is  not  "  genteel."  So  Michael  gets  his  education 
and  his  £10  note  and  becomes  a  constabulary  man, 
or  a  shop  assistant,  or  drifts  out  of  the  country. 

John  and  Bridget  are  left.     Bridget  has  no  dowry. 


34  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

therefore  cannot  get  a  husband,  and  John  cannot  get 
a  wife  with  a  dowry,  and  therefore  cannot  get  a  farm. 
He  could  become  an  agricultural  labourer,  get  a 
cottage,  a  wife,  though  a  dowerless  one,  and  live 
comfortably  at  home.  But  John  will  not  become  a 
labourer.  He  would  at  once  feel  de-classed.  His 
family  would  be  mortified  if  he  became  a  labourer, 
and  married  a  labourer's  daughter.  A  farmer's  son 
become  an  agricultural  labourer — never.  His  people 
are  raising  the  price  of  a  passage  for  him,  and  one  fine 
day  John  will  go  off  to  America  with  a  score  of  boys 
and  girls  from  the  district. 

Bridget  goes  first.  She  could  get  a  labourer  for  her 
husband,  but  if  she  married  one,  she  would  be  de- 
classed. She  may  not  marry  a  farmer's  son  without 
a  dowry.  For  Bridget,  the  price  of  a  passage  to 
America  is  scraped  up,  and  she  goes  off  to  become  a 
domestic  servant  and  earn  a  dowry.  When  she  earns 
her  dowry  she  will  come  back  and  marry  a  farmer  or 
a  farmer's  son. 

It  is  part  of  Bridget's  business  in  America  to  watch 
out  for  a  situation  for  John.  In  time  she  sends  for 
him,  generally  contributing  the  passage  money.  John 
goes  out  to  earn  a  farm  as  Bridget  went  out  to  earn 
a  dowry.  Do  they  succeed  ?  Of  twenty  Bridgets 
that  go  out  to  earn  dowries  three  return  with  the 
dowry,  marry  and  settle  down.  Seventeen  are  lost 
to  Ireland.  Half  of  them  are  never  heard  of  again — 
some  not  even  heard  of  by  their  parents.  The  others 
live  and  die  domestic  servants  in  America  or  get 
husbands  there.  In  the  first  years  of  their  exile  they 
may  pay  a  visit  to  the  old  people  dressed  in  the  fine 
garments  of  America,  and  making  the  stay-at-home 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  35 

girls  envious  of  the  good  times  they  are  supposed  to 
have.  But  for  all  their  flaunting  and  boasting  of  the 
wonders  of  America  they  would  be  glad  of  marriage 
and  a  home  in  their  own  country.  The  dowry  is  not 
earned,  or  earned  only  when  America  has  left  its  mark 
on  them,  and  turned  them,  fresh  young  Irish  girls,  to 
withered  women  of  thirty.  Even  the  dowry  then 
ceases  to  avail ;  the  young  men  pass  them  by. 

Out  of  twenty  Johns  that  go  out  two  come  back 
to  buy  farms.  Of  the  other  eighteen  some  go  under 
wholly  and  they  are  never  heard  of — others  pick  up  a 
living  by  slaving  twice  as  hard  as  an  agricultural 
labourer  in  Ireland.  Of  the  two  who  come  back  to 
buy  farms,  one  is  successful,  he  settles  down.  The 
other  is  not  successful.  He  cannot  get  the  land. 
The  farmer-shopkeeper  has  been  adding  farm  to  farm, 
and  now  he  will  not  break  up  his  grazing  land.  Those 
who  read  the  Unionist  papers  have  an  idea  that  cattle 
driving  is  connected  with  a  desire  to  make  a  man  give 
up  his  land  for  nothing.  But  the  hazel  stick  is  a 
desperate  remedy  for  a  great  evil.  The  rancher 
won't  sell  his  land  at  any  price,  and  a  grazing  ranch 
must  be  broken  up  into  small  farms  if  the  people  are 
to  Uve  in  the  country.  The  second  man  who  returned 
from  America  cannot  buy  a  farm  in  Ireland.  He 
goes  back  to  the  States  and  lives  and  dies  there. 

Out  of  forty  young  men  and  women  who  leave  this 
county  thirty-eight  swear  at  the  railway  stations 
that  they  are  coming  back.  They  are  in  earnest. 
One  man  and  three  women  return.     Thirty-six  don't. 

This  is  emigration  in  the  main  stream.  Add  to  it 
those  who  leave  the  country,  not  from  any  economic 
necessity,  but  because  of  the  lack  of  hfe  in  their 


36  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

district.  Wlien  a  cross-roads  dance  ceases,  when  a 
branch  of  the  GaeUc  League  closes  down,  or  when  a 
Gaelic  football  or  hockey  team  is  disbanded,  emigra- 
tion rises  in  a  parish.  Let  us  remember,  too,  that  in 
an  Irish  peasant  household  the  parental  authority  is 
absolutely  Roman.  Young  men  and  young  women 
are  denied,  not  merely  hire  for  their  service,  but  the 
right  of  choosing  a  wife  or  a  husband  for  themselves. 
A  good  deal  of  emigration  is  due  to  a  revolt  against 
this  household  tyranny. 

Amongst  the  people  of  the  Gaelic  stock  the  family, 
not  the  individual,  is  the  unit  that  is  considered. 
"  One  child  should  rear  another,"  is  a  saying  current 
in  many  Irish  houses.  Even  when  they  are  abroad 
the  children  of  peasant  households  do  not  forget 
their  obHgation  to  their  family.  Part  of  their  earn- 
ings is  regularly  sent  home,  and  a  place  is  sought  for 
a  brother  or  sister.  The  Irish  never  go  back  to  the 
land  in  America ;  they  remain  in  the  cities  where  they 
create  the  same  sort  of  social  organisation  as  they 
had  at  home.  They  make  a  clan.  Emigrants  from 
particular  districts  in  Ireland  go  to  particular  cities 
in  America.  The  West  of  Ireland  peasants  go  to 
Boston,  the  peasants  of  the  Midlands  to  Pittsburg, 
the  peasants  of  the  South  to  New  York.  There  is 
emigration  to  South  America  from  particular  parts 
of  Longford,  Meath  and  Westmeath,  and  I  have  been 
told  that  there  is  a  village  in  Westmeath  where 
Spanish  is  spoken  in  the  street. 

Irish  emigration  is  exaggerated  by  the  attraction  of 
kinship.  The  great  pull  to  America  comes  from  the 
thousands  of  Irish  girls  in  domestic  service  in  the 
States.    Practically  the  whole  of  the  domestic  service 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  37 

of  America  is  open  to  girl-emigrants  from  Ireland. 
They  receive  good  wages,  and  they  have  access  to 
the  social  life  that  is  to  their  minds.  Bridget  goes 
to  an  American  city  where  her  native  parish  in  County 
Roscommon  is  well-represented.  She  becomes  a 
domestic  servant.  She  also  becomes  a  member  of 
the  County  Roscommon  Ladies'  Association.  When 
she  attends  the  ball  given  by  the  Association,  Miss 
Maloney's  dress  is  described  in  an  Irish-American 
newspaper,  and  this  description  read  at  home  gives 
her  sisters  and  girl  comrades  a  sense  of  splendid  life. 
Bridget  can  save,  send  money  home,  and  supply  pre- 
pared passages.  She  can  take  her  holidays  in  Ireland, 
and  wear  dresses  that  give  her  distinction.  The 
dresses  that  she  leaves  behind  are  a  constant  reminder 
of  the  dignities  of  American  life. 

Her  brother  John  would  not  emigrate  if  he  had  not 
been  taught  that  to  work  for  another  farmer  was 
somehow  degrading.  And  Bridget  herself  would  not 
emigrate  if  she  had  a  dowry.  To  keep  John  and 
Bridget  in  Ireland,  we  have  to  reform  the  ideas  of 
one,  and  show  the  other  how  to  get  a  dowry.  This 
is  really  our  main  emigration  problem.  John's  case 
can  only  be  met  by  the  reconstruction,  materially  and 
intellectually,  of  rural  life  in  Ireland.  Bridget's  case 
might  be  met  by  some  system  of  insurance  that  would 
allow  a  girl  to  obtain  thirty  or  fifty  poimds  when  she 
came  to  the  age  of  twenty.  The  prepared  passage 
is  sent  into  Ireland,  in  many  cases,  not  because  the 
persons  across  the  water  believe  that  America  provides 
a  good  environment,  but  because  they  think  there  is 
no  other  way  of  giving  a  brother  or  a  relative  a  start 
in  life.     If  the  passage  money  went  to  apprenticing 


38  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  youth  to  some  trade,  it  would  be  better  for  those 
in  Ireland  and  those  in  America.  Some  time  the 
Irish  people  may  think  it  worth  their  while  to  create 
a  national  fund  into  which  would  be  paid  the  monies 
that  are  now  spent  in  pre-paid  passages.  The  fund 
might  be  used  to  provide  boys  and  girls  with  a  train- 
ing that  would  enable  them  to  make  a  hveUhood  in 
Ireland. 


American  Letters 

"  No  one  ever  sent  a  good  story  out  of  Ireland,"  said 
a  returned  emigrant-girl  to  me.  The  letters  written 
from  Ireland  are  conventional,  superficial,  and  hard. 
They  always  make  it  apparent  that  the  person 
written  to  has  money  and  the  person  writing  needs 
some  of  it.  Here  is  a  letter  as  written  by  the 
amanuensis  of  a  peasant  family.  It  is  the  type  of 
the  Irish  letter  to  the  States  : — 

My  dear  Anne, — I  hope  you  are  well  as  this  leaves  us  at  present. 
We  are  well,  thank  God,  tho'  this  year  has  been  a  hard  one  on 
the  poor  farmers.  It  rained  so  hard  we  couldn't  get  the  hay  half 
saved.  The  turf  isn't  half  home.  We  have  the  rent  made 
nearly  all  up  except  two  pounds  or  three.  We  hope  you  are 
not  sick  or  anything  that  you  didn't  write  home  for  two  months. 
Dear  Anne,  don't  be  working  too  hard,  and  try  and  keep  yourself 
well.  John  Burns'  daughter  came  home  from  Chicago  a  week 
ago,  you  wouldn't  know  her,  she  that  was  the  fine  fresh  rosy 
cheeked  girl.  She's  got  very  thin,  and  her  face  is  as  yellow  as  a 
duck's  foot.  They  say  she  has  £150  saved.  And  she'll  settle 
down  if  she  can  get  a  nice  place  to  go  into.  She  says  that  John 
O'Hara's  daughter,  Mary,  that  they  be  boasting  about  having 
made  a  great  match  out  there,  saying  her  man  has  her  hung 
down  with  jewellery  and  pearls,  married  a  black  nigger  man 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  39 

that  keeps  a  saloon.  Sara  Burns  bought  her  father  a  side  car 
and  they  have  the  rent  paid.  It's  the  first  time  we  were  behind 
the  rent  for  a  long  time — so,  dear  Anne,  if  you  can  see  your  way 
to  sending  us  a  pound  or  two  to  put  us  over  the  half-year  with- 
out stinting  yourself,  it  will  save  your  father  a  lot  of  trouble. 
He  doesn't  know  that  I'm  making  this  request,  but  he  has  not 
put  a  bit  of  meat  across  his  mouth  for  three  months,  for  we 
couldn't  afford  it. 

We  heard  last  Sunday  from  the  men  coming  from  the  Chapel 
that  the  Parliament  is  going  to  make  the  landlord  give  the 
people  the  land  entirely,  and  we'll  have  to  pay  no  more  rent. 
Dear  Anne,  if  this  is  the  truth,  we'll  ask  no  more  money  of  you, 
and  you  can  keep  it  all  up  for  your  own.  future.  Do  you  think 
will  you  come  home  this  spring  1  We  do  be  longing  to  see  your 
face  again,  and  we  pray  for  you  every  night. 

This  letter  was  written  for  us  by  a  grand  daughter  of  Michael 
Fannigan's — Maria  Cunroy's  eldest  child.  Send  her  a  silk 
handkerchief  for  Xmas.  Good-bye,  dear  x4.nne,  and  God  bless 
you.     Your  true  and  affectionate  Mother. 

The  other  letter  is  from  America.  We  may  imagine 
that  Anne  has  written  it  to  a  girl  comrade  : — 

Well  Alice  I  do  often  be  mad  with  myself  for  coming  to  this 
country.  Some  how  I  aint  contented  nor  dont  think  I  ever 
will  untill  I  take  a  trip  home.  All  the  same  I  would  not  live 
over  their  now  for  anything.  I  have  a  very  nice  time  Alice  lots 
of  money  nice  Clothes  &  having  a  good  time.  Alice  We  do  have 
fun  out  here  alright.  I  only  wish  you  were  out  here.  One  thing 
you  are  just  loosing  your  time  over  their  if  you  have  to  work 
a  little  hard  itself  you  get  good  money  for  your  time.  If  you 
ever  care  to  come  write  to  me  &  I  will  send  you  what  you  know. 
I  am  thinking  about  getting  married  when  I  come  back  in  Oct 
next.  If  I  dont  get  Married  in  Oct  I  will  go  to  Ireland  the 
summer  after.  I  guess  I  have  enough  said  on  the  subject  Alice 
we  were  at  a  great  Ball  last  night  going  to  another  one  tuesday 
night  Alice  their  is  were  you  would  see  style  Balls  dresses,  it  was 
fine  &  to  see  the  yanky  fellows  in  style.  I  wore  a  blue  silk  dress 
blue  ribbon  on   my  hair  black  velvet  button  high   shoes  my 


40  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

sister  Maggie  wore  the  same  Annie  was  not  in  it  As  she  is  living 
in  the  city  Alice  she  looks  fine  &  us  three  is  going  to  get  our 
Pictures  taken  We  will  send  you  one.  Maggie  is  talking 
about  going  to  Ireland  in  the  summer  I  dont  know  for  sure. 
How  is  Mollie  getting  along  ye  like  the  ring  I  sent  Poor  Mollie 
I  often  think  of  her  I  sent  her  the  ring  the  way  she  would 
have  something  belonging  to  me.  I  suppose  everything  is  just 
the  same  around  the  house.     I  will  close  for  want  of  paper. 

Well  Alice  I  am  got  a  real  Yanky  everone  says  it    I  changed 
greatly  all  for  the  better  thank  God  I  look  fine. 


CHAPTER  III 

LETTER    TO    AN   IRISH   FARMER 

My  dear  Michael, — Many  people  have  a  bad  im- 
pression of  your  class.  They  think  of  the  farmers  of 
Ireland  as  people  who  are  anxious  to  take  much 
and  reluctant  to  give  anything.  They  think  of  them 
as  ill-adapted  to  the  struggle  for  an  independent 
existence.  They  have  the  impression  that  the 
farmers  are  too  fond  of  the  poor  mouth.  I  have 
found  the  farmers  of  Ireland  a  hard-working,  cheerful, 
self-respecting  body  of  men.  They  have  one  great 
lack — they  look  upon  themselves  as  people  who  are 
badly-placed.  "  Look  upon  us,"  they  say,  "  striving 
from  daylight  to  dark.  In  a  town  you  might  have 
a  nice  situation  and  you  need  never  dirty  your 
hands."  When  I  was  meditating  on  this  letter  I 
walked  round  to  see  yourself  and  family,  and  found 
you,  your  wife,  and  your  two  sons  shaking  hay  in 
your  field.  'Twas  a  beautiful  day,  Michael,  and 
your  occupation  was  as  exhilarating  as  a  bicycle 
ride  or  a  game  of  hurling.  The  younger  members 
of  your  family  made  no  pretence — they  thoroughly 
enjoyed  the  work.  Anon  came  the  little  girl.  We 
sat  down  on  the  ditch  and  had  tea  and  pan-cakes. 
You  returned  to  your  grievance.  A  farmer's  was 
an  unsheltered,  unremunerated  hfe.  You  considered 
poor  little  Francis  who  was  tossing  the  hay,  and  you 
thought  you  would  make  an  effort  to  take  him  out 

41 


42  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

of  such  ail  existence.  You  would  get  a  situation 
for  the  boy.  He  would  have  a  clean  house,  a  nice 
time,  and  need  never  dirty  his  hands.  You  thought 
a  hundred  a  year  would  be  an  extraordinarily  fine 
income.  You  did  not  know  what  your  own  income 
was,  but  you  were  sure  it  was  not  nearly  a  hundred 
per  year — "  no,  nor  the  half  of  a  hundred."  There- 
upon I  took  out  a  pencil  and  made  this  sum  in 
addition : — 

For  pigs        .         .         .         .  £60  0  0 

Calves 12  0  0 

Milk  (from  creamery  30s.  per 

month  for  6  months)  .  .  9  0  0 
Eggs  (100  per  week  for  7 

months)     .          .          .          .  11  4  0 

Poultry  (6  flocks,  30  chickens)  2  5  0 

Turkeys         .          .         .         .  3  10  0 

Geese 1  10  0 

A  young  horse       .         .         .  5  0  0 


£104    9    0 


So  you  have  the  hundred  per  year,  Michael.  Now 
you  have  practically  no  rent  to  pay — £7  for  a  house 
and  over  twenty  acres  of  land,  good  and  bad.  The 
only  provisions  you  buy  are  flour  and  bacon.  Now 
take  the  case  of  the  clerical  person  in  DubUn  whose 
state  you  envy.  The  rent  of  his  bare  house  is  not 
less  than  £20  per  annum.  He  has  to  pay  8d.  per 
stone  for  potatoes  (you  never  boil  less  than  four 
stone  of  potatoes).  For  cabbage  that  would  not 
go  'w^th  the  dinner  of  one  member  of  your  family 
he  has  to  pay  2d.  or  3d.     You  do  not  know  what 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  43 

it  is  to  pay  for  milk  by  the  week.  You  do  not  buy 
butter  at  lOd.  or  Is.  per  lb.  You  need  never  buy 
eggs.  Potatoes  and  cabbage,  butter,  eggs  and  milk  ; 
the  staple  of  provision — you  have  them  for  nothing. 
You  are  free  of  rent,  that  burthen  of  the  artisan,  the 
clerical,  and  the  professional  classes  in  DubUn.  You 
pay  9d.  per  lb.  for  bacon  it  is  true,  but  if  you  really 
knew  your  own  interest  you  would  kill  your  pig 
and  have  pork  all  the  year  round.  You  buy  flour, 
but  you  could  grow  half  an  acre  of  wheat,  get  it 
ground,  and  have  again  that  strong  and  wholesome 
wheaten  bread  that  we  ate  in  our  county  a  few 
years  ago.  Now,  Michael,  there  is  my  calculation. 
If  your  children  at  school  were  taught  a  simple  system 
of  farm  accounts  you  might  feel  a  more  independent 
man.  And,  believe  me,  Michael,  that  sense  of  in- 
dependence is  worth  something. 

When  you  think  of  the  man  "  in  the  situation," 
the  "  clean-handed  man,"  I  suppose  your  mind  is 
on  the  clerk.  Now  let  me  contrast  your  position 
with  his.  Ill,  well,  or  indifferent,  he  has  to  be  at  his 
business  at  a  certain  hour  in  the  morning.  He  has 
not  the  content  of  knowing  that  his  labour  is  fruitful 
for  himself.  No  green  or  golden  crop  compensates 
his  weariness.  Take  up  the  difference  between  his 
labour  and  yours,  Michael — shut  in  from  the  air, 
the  sunshine,  and  the  good  hours  he  labours  at  some 
tedious  account  or  watches  the  hands  of  the  office 
clock.  He  cannot  stand  away  from  his  work  and 
talk  with  the  passer-by.  He  cannot  break  the  tedium 
of  the  day  by  a  meal  with  his  wife  and  children. 

In  every  man  there  is  a  need  for  sunshine  and 
variety  of  labour.     The  blue  sky,  the  procession  of 


U  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

clouds,  the  flowering  bushes,  the  rich-smelling  earth, 
is  part  of  the  health  of  man.  Part  of  the  health 
of  the  animal  I  may  say,  for  you  know,  Michael, 
the  horse  that  can  look  over  the  stable  door  and 
notice  the  passing  things  is  healthier  and  more  spirited 
than  the  horse  shut  up.  You,  Michael,  have  the 
smell  of  the  bushes  in  the  morning,  the  sight  of  the 
wide  sky  at  night,  and  these  things  are  something 
to  you.  Think  of  the  Httle  clerk  shut  up  in  the  bank 
and  then  think  of  a  day  in  the  meadow  when  the 
body  swings  with  the  scythe,  when  one  feels  the 
strong  tear  of  the  grass,  when  the  young  fellows 
are  talking  and  laughing  around  us,  and  the  silent 
hawk  hangs  above.  Then,  Michael,  we  feel  that 
we  are  men,  and  we  are  indeed  on  the  top  of  the 
world. 

No,  Michael,  do  not  put  young  Francis  into  a 
situation.  No,  nor  do  not  bend  yourself  to  make  a 
priest  of  him  either.  Priests  are  not  to  be  made  out 
of  any  casual  member  of  the  family.  There  is  such  a 
thing  as  a  call  to  the  priesthood.  When  the  call  is 
heard  it  will  be  time  enough  to  discuss  the  possibility. 
We  must  have  another  piety,  Michael.  It  should 
be  pious  for  a  man  to  have  his  farm  in  such  order 
that  it  is  a  credit  to  liimself,  his  family,  and  his 
country.  It  should  be  pious  for  a  man  to  contrive 
so  that  his  family  is  not  scattered  on  the  ways  of  the 
world.  It  should  be  pious  for  the  sons  to  remain 
near  the  father,  and  the  daughters  near  the  mother. 
It  should  be  a  piety  to  know  what  is  the  nation, 
to  make  your  labour  and  your  family  of  service  to 
the  nation.  Do  you  think  of  the  clean  and  easy 
situation  for  Francis.     It  would  be  better  for  him, 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  45 

I  think,  to  be  a  labourer  here  in  his  own  district. 
A  labourer,  you  say,  "  Never,  while  the  beam  of  my 
roof  holds."     Very  well.     But  a  man  could  do  well 
with   a   good   house,    an   acre   of   ground,    and  the 
employment  he  could   get  about  here.      We  begin 
to  understand  co-operation,  Michael.     It  would  be 
possible   for   an   association   of   labourers   to   graze 
cattle  and  rear  a  few  calves  to  sell  with  their  pigs, 
and    to   have   some   dealing   with   the   co-operative 
banks.     And    with    good    and    intelligent    labourers 
in  the  district,  the  landed  men  like  yourself  would 
be  in  a  position  to  develop  your  farms.     I  assure  you, 
you  do  not  get  a  quarter  of  its  value  out  of  your 
land.     For  one  thing,  with  inteUigent  labour  in  the 
district,  you  could  have  winter  dairying.     You  could 
feed  your  cattle  on  root  crops,  and  send  milk  to  the 
creamery  for  the  other  six  months  of  the  year.     At 
that  time  you  would  get  more  than  30s.  per  month 
for   milk.     You   do   not   approve   of   farmers'    sons 
becoming  labourers.     Does  your  wife  approve  of  it  ? 
I  think  the  women  approve.     "  Yes,"  said  a  woman 
to  me,   "  if   the  boys  would    settle   here,  the   girls 
would  stay  here  too."     You  and  your  family  of  strong 
boys  are  practically  idle  in  the  winter.     You  have 
a  creamery  in  your  district,  and  it  would  be  to  every- 
one's advantage  if  milk  could  be  suppHed  to  it  in 
the  winter.     Many  farmers  I  know  are  thinking  of 
winter  dairying.     Think   it   over   and   talk  it  over, 
it  will  soon  become  possible. 

Michael ;  the  whole  of  this  country  is  depending 
on  the  labour  of  the  man  who  has  the  land.  The 
shopkeepers  in  the  town,  and  the  bank  clerks  behind 
the  counter  are  dependants  of  yours.     So  are  the 


46  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Constabulary  men,  and  the  fellows  in  the  big  offices. 
Do  not  think  of  farming  as  a  rude  occupation,  fit 
only  for  thick-necked  boors.  More  than  any  other 
occupation,  yours  demands  an  all-round  intelligence 
and  an  aU-round  training.  I  will  give  you  a  word 
to  remember,  Michael.  That  word  is  Science.  This 
year  you  have  sprayed  your  potatoes  and  have 
sprayed  them  thoroughly.  You  are  putting  Hme 
in  your  fields  and  basic  slag  in  your  meadows.  You 
are  using  fertilisers.  What  is  behind  these  things 
is  well  worth  understanding.  The  man  who  under- 
stands them  is  a  more  intelHgent  man  than  your 
bank  clerk  or  your  District  Inspector.  The  farmer 
who  does  not  understand  them  is  only  a  day  labourer 
on  the  fields.  You  are  making  use  of  the  means  of 
improvement  which  the  Department  of  Agriculture 
is  bringing  to  your  door.  Make  use  of  the  training 
which  it  offers.  Let  your  sons  get  some  of  this 
training.  Here  is  young  Francis  with  his  fine  head 
and  inteUigent  eyes.  Instead  of  letting  the  boy's 
mind  run  to  America,  instead  of  encouraging  him  to 
hang  on  the  passage  his  poor  little  sister  will  send 
him,  let  the  lad  go  for  a  session  to  the  Agricultural 
College  at  Ballyhaise. 

Our  ideas  are  changing,  Michael,  and  in  the  new 
arrangement  of  opinion  questions  may  be  asked  you. 
Are  you  really  a  good  farmer,  Michael  ?  Are  the  boys 
in  your  house  farmers  in  the  making  ?  Can  your 
girl  cook  a  fowl  or  make  a  dish  to  go  with  your  bacon  ? 
Is  your  house  a  credit  to  the  district  ?  Are  there 
any  flowers  in  your  front  garden  ?  Is  there  anything 
of  adornment  about  your  house  ?  Do  you  know  the 
names   of  even  the   commonest  flowers  ?    Do  you 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  47 

know  of  any  other  vegetable  beside  cabbage  ?  Do 
you  know  anything  of  fruit  ?  In  other  parts  of  the 
world  the  farmer  can  sit  down  in  his  dining-room 
to  a  dinner  of  more  than  one  course.  A  wash-room 
or  bath-room  is  part  of  his  house. 

On  the  way  from  your  house  I  passed  a  place  where 
there  were  larch  trees.  The  place  has  been  sold  to 
the  tenants.  You  and  some  others  have  cut  down 
the  trees  and  left  the  ugly  stumps  in  the  ground. 
That  act,  Michael,  was  a  sin  against  the  beauty  and 
health  of  your  district. 

I  blame  you  for  such  acts,  and  I  blame  you  and 
your  class  for  the  constant  litigation  that  disgraces 
the  country.  Meanwhile  remember  that  you  farmers 
are  the  body  and  bones  of  the  Irish  nation.  Stick 
to  the  work.  Contrive  ways  of  improving  your 
holding.  Keep  your  children  about  you.  Become 
prosperous,  independent,  and  proud. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SURVIVING   MYTH   AND    CUSTOM 

Athlone, 
Monday,  February  19th. 

Because  he  was  "  afraid  of  the  fairies  "  an  agricultural  labourer 
named  Kilduff  threw  up  an  acre  of  land  which  he  had  secured 
under  the  Labourers'  Act  and  upon  which  the  Athlone  District 
Council  proposed  to  buUd  a  cottage  for  him.  The  plot  is  at 
Lacken,  made  memorable  by  Goldsmith's  "  Deserted  Village," 
as  containmg  the  pool  "  the  noisy  geese  "  gabbled  over,  and  on 
the  lands  of  Mr  Adamson,  whose  family  held  this  famous  spot 
in  the  poet's  days.  Kilduff 's  objection  to  the  plot  was  that 
there  was  a  "  fort "  on  it  which  would  have  to  be  removed  for 
his  cottage,  and  "  on  no  account  would  he  interfere  with  the 
fairies'  home,"  which,  they  knew,  "  one  never  had  any  luck  after." 
At  the  meeting  of  the  District  Council  last  Saturday,  Patrick 
Gilleran,  ex-district  councillor,  applied  for  the  plot  upon  which 
he  intended  to  buUd  a  cottage. 

Mr  Buckley.  It  is  not  a  place  to  site  a  cottage  on  in  the  first  place. 

Mr  Smyth,  J. P.  Gilleran  does  not  appear  to  be  afraid  of  the 
fairies. 

Mr  Tracey.  He  is  going  to  enclose  the  fort. 

Mr  Rourhe.  Build  a  wall  around  it  ? 

Mr  Tracey.  Yes. 

Mr  Rourhe.  Undoubtedly  many  people  do  not  like  to  inter- 
fere with  these  old  places. 

Mr  Smyth.  Kilduff  gave  it  up  because  he  did  not  like  to  inter- 
fere with  the  "  fort."  There  are  a  great  many  people 
who  do  not  like  to  cut  them  down. 

Mr  M alone.  And  at  the  inquiry  he  swore  that  this  house  was 
so  windy  that  a  wild  duck  would  get  rheumatism  in  it. 

It  was  decided  to  give  Gilleran  the  plot  on  his  signmg  a  bond 

48 


^-    E 


>   „ 


IVIY  IRISH  YEAR  49 

to  pay  tlie  rent  until  such  time  as  the  District  Council  built  a 
cottage  there  {Evening  Telegraph,  Dublin,  February  19th,  1912). 

A  "fort"  or  "rath"  is  an  earthern  fortification 
generally  crowned  by  some  old  trees.  The  people  say 
that  the  Danes  built  these  forts,  but  I  believe  that  the 
"  Danes  "  in  the  EngUsh-speaking  parts  of  the  country- 
stand  for  the  De  Dannans,  who  are  the  gods  of  the  Irish 
Celts.  The  palaces  of  the  fairies  are  thought  to  be 
under  these  forts,  and  in  Oliver  Goldsmith's  country 
the  man  who  would  interfere  with  a  fort  is  certainly  one 
in  a  thousand.  ..."  What  are  the  fairies,"  I  asked 
a  blind  wanderer  I  met  upon  the  road.  I  can  still 
see  his  face  filled  with  intensity  of  conviction.  "  The 
fairies,"  he  said ;  '  I  will  tell  you  what  the  fairies  are. 
God  moved  from  His  seat,  and  when  he  turned  round 
Lucifer  was  in  it.  Then  Hell  was  made  in  a  minute. 
God  moved  His  hand  and  swept  away  thousands  of 
angels.  And  it  was  in  His  mind  to  sw  eep  away  thou- 
sands more.  '  O  God  Almighty,  stop  ! '  said  the  angel 
Gabriel,  '  Heaven  will  be  swept  clean  out.'  '  I'll 
stop,'  said  God  Almighty ;  '  Them  that  are  in  Heaven, 
let  them  remain  in  Heaven,  them  that  are  in  Hell, 
let  them  remain  in  Hell,  and  them  that  are  between 
Heaven  and  Hell  let  them  remain  in  the  air.  And 
the  angels  that  remained  between  Heaven  and  Hell 
are  the  Fairies.' "  What  he  said  was  as  true  to 
the  man  as  one  of  the  Gospels.  For  those  who 
have  kept  in  touch  with  the  GaeUc  traditions  it  is 
necessary  to  create  a  mighty  origin  for  the  fairies, 
or,  as  they  are  called  in  Irish  tradition  the  Sidhe.^ 
"  Pease-blossom "    and    "  Mustard-seed  "    are    not 

*  Pronounced  Shee. 


50  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

amongst  the  Irish  Sidhe,  whose  names  are  the  names 
of  kings  and  queens.  In  parts  of  the  country  the 
Sidhe  are  diminished,  but  in  other  parts  it  is  not 
forgotten  that  they  are  representative  of  great  powers 
and  dominions.  They  are  the  old  gods  of  the  Celts. 
The  attitude  of  the  people  towards  them  is  expressed 
in  the  charm  that  is  uttered  in  Arran  : — 

"  We  accept  their  protection, 
And  we  refuse  their  removal ; 
Their  backs  to  us, 
Their  faces  from  us, 
Thro'  the  death  and  passion 
Of  Our  Saviour  Jesus  Christ."  i 

The  part  of  the  country  where  the  Athlone  District 
Council  have  authority  is  sophisticated  enough,  but 
even  there  the  fairies  are  spoken  of  with  respect. 
They  are  "  The  Good  People,"  and  it  is  wise  to  say 
little  about  them.  It  is  remembered  that  sometimes 
they  take  away  children,  and  sometimes  newly- 
married  brides.  They  delight  in  music,  and  often 
they  carry  off  a  good  fiddler  or  piper  to  attend  them 
in  their  revels  under  the  rath.  Music  is  communi- 
cated between  fairies  and  mortals.  The  lovely  dance 
tune  known  as  the  "  Fairy  Reel  "  is  believed  to  have 
come  straight  out  of  the  fairy  world.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  known  that  mortal  musicians  have  added 
to  the  fairy  stock  of  tunes.  I  should  say  that  in 
Oliver  Goldsmith's  county,  that  the  only  members 
of  the  fairy  company  individualised  are  the  Lepre- 
chaun and  the  Banshee.  The  Leprechaun  is  only 
an    artisan   for   the  fairies.      But  he  knows  where 

1  Taken  down  by  Eoin  MacNeil,  and  given  in  "  The  Religious  Songs 
of  Connacht." 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  51 

the  crocks  of  gold  are  hidden.  He  is  a  very  little 
fellow,  and  he  is  always  engaged  in  his  trade  of  shoe- 
making.  If  you  are  near  a  rath  or  an  old  castle  you 
may  hear  the  sound  of  his  hammering.  If  you  dis- 
cover the  fellow,  draw  close  to  him,  without  making 
a  sound  that  would  betray  you.  If  you  are  lucky 
you  may  be  able  to  take  him  in  your  grasp.  Then 
ask  him  where  those  crocks  of  gold  are  liidden.  Insist 
upon  his  telhng  you,  and  do  not  let  your  mind  be 
dissipated  by  his  excuses.  But  in  the  end  he  will 
cheat  you.  He  will  say  or  do  something  that  will 
distract  your  attention,  and  when  you  look  again 
the  Leprechaun  will  have  disappeared. 

The  Banshee  is  a  tragic  invention.  She  stays  near 
a  house  and  wails  for  the  one  who  is  about  to  die. 
Those  who  know  how  piercing  it  is  to  hear  one 
"  weep  Irish  "  will  realise  what  a  terrible  visitant 
the  Banshee  would  be.  In  all  respects  this  lone 
woman  is  like  the  "  Keener  "  or  mourner  for  the 
actual  dead.  Those  who  have  looked  upon  her 
describe  her  as  drawing  a  comb  through  her  hair. 
She  is  probably  tearing  out  her  hair  in  the  manner 
of  the  old  mourners.  The  Banshee  follows  only  the 
famihes  of  the  "  high  jVIilisian  race,"  that  is  the 
people  who  are  entitled  to  have  an  "  0  "  or  a  "  Mac  " 
before  their  names.  And  she  only  wails  for  those 
who  are  descendants  of  noble  families.  Many  peasant 
families  in  Ireland  can  well  claim  noble  descent,  as 
practically  all  the  native  aristocracy  who  did  not  go 
over  to  France,  Spain,  or  Austria  were,  in  the  phrase 
of  a  native  historian,  "  Melted  into  the  peasantry." 

The  trees  that  crown  the  rath  and  the  "  lone " 
thorn  bushes  that  grow  in  the  fields  are  the  only 


52  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

timber  that  have  exemption  in  Ireland.  The  plough 
is  never  brought  to  the  roots  of  the  old  bush,  and 
the  bill-hook  is  never  turned  against  its  branches. 
If  a  man  cuts  the  bush  in  his  field,  misfortune  will 
come  upon  his  household.  The  privileges  of  the 
Church  are  not  sufficient  to  protect  one  from  the 
resentment  of  the  beings  who  are  connected  with  the 
bush.  I  have  been  told  of  a  priest  who  had  been 
given  as  a  site  for  a  chapel  a  piece  on  which  a  "  lone  " 
bush  grew.  He  had  it  cut  down.  But  he  was  never 
able  to  build  his  chapel  upon  that  site,  for  the  horses, 
drawing  the  materials,  were  stricken  down  when  they 
came  to  the  place  where  the  bush  had  been.  A 
student  of  folk-lore  seeks  a  comrade  for  the  spirit  of 
the  bush  in  the  spirit  of  the  well.  I  remember  that 
in  the  story  of  the  "  Horned  Witches,"  it  is  the  spirit 
of  the  well  tells  the  woman  of  the  house  how  to  baffle 
her  evil  visitors.  There  is  little  folk-lore,  however, 
current  about  wells.  The  most  renowned  of  them 
have  now  the  secure  sanctity  of  religion.  Consecrated 
by  the  name  of  some  saint  they  draw  thousands 
of  pilgrims.  Very  characteristic  of  Ireland  is  the 
sight  of  holy  wells  with  devotees  beside  them.  The 
scene,  perhaps,  is  in  some  desolate  place  with  bare 
mountains  for  a  background.  Two  or  three  wells  may 
be  together.  In  rigid  attitudes  the  pilgrims  are 
kneeling  on  flags  beside  the  wells  with  great  rosaries 
hanging  from  their  hands.  On  bushes  near  are 
hanging  rags,  sticks,  crutches,  scapulars  and  rosaries 
— the  offerings  of  those  who  have  experienced  reUef. 
People  go  to  holy  wells  for  cures  for  bUndness,  lame- 
ness, nervous  troubles,  or  they  make  the  pilgrimage 
because  of  some  vow  made  to  insure  the  safety  of  the 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  53 

son  or  daughter  abroad  in  England,  Scotland,  or 
America. 

Some  months  ago  I  was  at  a  celidk  in  the  house  of 
a  weU-off  farmer.  We  were  seated  round  the  fire 
talking  about  American  letters,  old-age  pensions,  and 
the  prospects  of  land  purchase,  when  a  bewildered 
cliild  came  amongst  us.  He  was  undressed  and  had 
come  down  from  the  bedroom,  and  it  was  evident  that 
he  was  walking  in  his  sleep.  "  What  is  the  matter 
with  you,  John  ?  "  said  one  of  the  men  present. 
*'  Hush,"  said  his  mother,  "  don't  call  him  John, 
call  him  Owenie."  The  child's  name  was  changed 
for  the  occasion,  and  until  he  was  got  back  to  bed, 
he  was  spoken  of  as  "  Owenie."  The  being  before  us 
was  under  an  enigmatic  power,  and  it  would  not  be 
well  to  let  that  power  have  possession  of  an  important 
thing — the  child's  real  name.  The  attitude  of  the 
people  showed  a  remembered  custom,  and  the  mystery 
then  made  helped  me  to  realise  an  attitude  often 
dwelt  upon  in  folk-tales — notably  in  the  one  that 
narrates  the  death  of  Cuchulain — the  necessity  for 
withholding  a  person's  real  name. 

When  John  had  been  got  back  to  bed  I  turned 
the  conversation  to  remembered  beliefs  and  customs. 
Were  the  children  still  forbidden  to  rob  the  nests  of 
swallows  ?  Yes,  for  if  the  swallow's  nest  was  robbed 
the  cows  would  milk  blood.  The  children  were  also 
forbidden  to  strike  each  other  with  a  rod  of  the  alder. 
Why  ?  The  people  said  it  was  because  the  Cross  was 
made  of  aider  wood.  But  this  explanation  shows  that 
the  myth  about  the  alder  wood  had  been  forgotten. 
Probably  the  swallows'  nests  are  respected  because 
of  a  tradition  that  makes  them  sacred  as  the  bringers- 


54  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

in  of  summer.  But  apart  from  any  tradition,  the 
sight  of  a  swallow  on  the  ground  is  sufficient  to  inspire 
one  with  some  dread  ;  for  this  dusky  and  savage  little 
bird  has  the  strangeness  of  something  out  of  an  un- 
known element.  On  seeing  a  wounded  swallow  the 
first  feeling  of  an  instructed  person  would  be  a  wish 
to  keep  away  from  it. 


II 

Odd  individuals  are  credited  with  weird  powers. 
A  friend  of  mine,  who  is  a  medical  man,  is  interested 
in  a  belief  which  credits  some  peasant  with  the  power 
of  stopping  bleeding  by  some  spell,  charm  or  occult 
influence.  He  tells  of  a  valuable  hunter  that  was 
injured  in  the  open  country  in  such  a  way  as  to  cause 
excessive  bleeding.  Some  peasants  told  the  rider  of 
the  proximity  of  a  man  who  could  stop  the  bleeding. 
He  was  brought  upon  the  scene.  Everyone  was 
turned  away,  and  alone  the  man  w^ent  tlirough  the 
ceremony.  In  a  while  the  people  were  brought  back  ; 
the  bleeding  had  been  stayed.  There  is  a  remarkable 
and  persistent  tradition  of  horses  being  tamed  by  a 
spell  whispered  into  their  ear.  The  man  who  claims 
this  power  is  called  "  The  Whisperer."  Part  of  the 
bargain  that  "The  Whisperer  "  makes  is  that  there 
shall  be  no  witnesses  to  the  operation.  But  Borrow, 
who  refers  to  "  The  Whisperer  "  in  two  of  his  books, 
says  nothing  about  the  secrecy  of  the  operation. 
When  "  Lavengro  "  was  in  Ireland  as  a  youth  he  met 
one  who  had  the  power  of  "  The  Whisperer."  The 
scene  which  he  gives  vividly  is  so  appropriate  to  this 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  55 

chapter  that  I  ^\dll  relate  it  in  Borrow's  words. ^    It 
was  a  smith  in  Tipperary  who  had  mysterious  power. 

"  Can  you  do  this,  agrah  ?  "  said  the  smith,  and  he  uttered  a 
word  which  I  had  never  heard  before,  in  a  sharp,  pungent  tone. 
The  effect  on  myself  was  somewhat  extraordinary ;  a  strange 
thrill  ran  through  me ;  but  with  regard  to  the  cob  it  was  terrible ; 
the  animal  forthwith  became  like  one  mad,  and  reared  and  kicked 
with  the  utmost  desperation. 

"  Can  you  do  that,  agrah  ?  "  said  the  smith. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  I,  retreating,  "  I  never  saw  the  horse  so 
before." 

"  Go  between  his  legs,  agrah,"  said  the  smith,  "  his  hinder 
legs  " ;  and  he  again  showed  his  fury. 

"  I  dare  not,"  said  I,  "  he  would  kill  me." 

"  He  would  kill  ye  ?     And  how  do  you  know  that,  agrah  ?  " 

"  I  feel  he  would,"  said  I,  "  something  tells  me  so." 

"  And  it  tells  ye  the  truth,  agrah ;  but  it's  a  fine  beast,  and  it 
is  a  pity  to  see  him  in  such  a  state.  Is  ogam  ari't  leigeas  "  ;  ^ 
and  here  he  uttered  another  word  in  a  voice  singularly  modified 
but  sweet  and  almost  plaintive.  The  effect  of  it  was  as 
instantaneous  as  that  of  the  other,  but  how  different.  The 
animal  lost  all  fury  and  became  at  once  calm  and  gentle.  The 
smith  went  up  to  it,  coaxed  and  petted  it,  and  made  use  of 
various  sounds  of  equal  endearment ;  then  turning  to  me,  and 
holding  out  once  more  his  grimy  hand,  he  said,  "  And  now  you'll 
be  giving  me  the  Sassenach  tenpence,  agrah." 

I  know  an  old  man  Uving  in  Dublin  whose  con- 
science is  now  really  perturbed  because  he  once  made 
acknowledgment  of  unauthorised  spiritual  powers. 
He  carried  a  charm  from  one  crone  to  another.  It 
appears  that  these  charms  are  communicated  not 
directly  but  through  an  intermediary,  and  this  inter- 
mediary is  a  boy  or  girl  too  young  to  realise  the 
significance  of  the  words  given  them  to  repeat.    The 

^  Lavengro,  "  I  have  the  cure. 


56  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

spell  is  always  in  Irish.  My  friend  performed  the 
commission,  and  long  afterwards  he  began  to  think 
of  the  words  of  the  charm.  One  of  the  powers 
therein  invoked  was,  "  The  king  who  would  not  obey." 
He  knows  that  this  occult  phrase  covers  a  reference  to 
Lucifer.  References  to  Lucifer  or  the  pagan  powers 
are  not  frequent  in  the  charms  still  repeated  in  the 
Irish-speaking  districts.  These  charms  are  mainly 
against  disease,  and  the  powers  to  whom  appeal  is 
made  are  generally  orthodox.  In  "The  Religious  Songs 
of  Connacht,"  Dr  Hyde  mentions  that  O 'Flaherty 
gives  fifteen  charms  that  he  heard  amongst  the 
people  in  Connemara :  "A  charm  for  staunching 
of  blood,  a  charm  for  '  rose  '  or  erysipelas,  a  charm 
against  choking,  two  charms  against  a  festering,  a 
charm  by  which  a  mad  dog  is  quelled,  a  charm  against 
'  little  fever '  or  neuralgia,  a  toothache  charm, 
Mary's  charm  for  women  in  child-bed,  a  charm  said 
on  going  round  with  Brigit's  Cross,  a  charm  against 
want,  Columcille's,  or  the  hurting  charm,  the  night- 
mare charm,  the  love  charm,  and  a  charm  against  the 
demons  of  the  air."  We  imagine  that  the  love  charm 
would  be  the  most  valuable  of  these.  No  love  charm 
is  given  in  "  The  Religious  Songs  of  Connacht "  ;  but 
our  readers  can  find  a  very  beautiful  one  in  Lady 
Wilde's  fine  book,  "  Ancient  Legends  of  Ireland." 

There  are  three  festivals  that  commemorate  ancient 
customs.  The  old  festival  of  Samhain  that  is  now 
synchronised  with  Hallow  Eve,  Saint  Bridget's  Day, 
which  falls  on  the  2nd  February,  and  St  John's  Eve, 
which  falls  on  21st  June.  It  is  dangerous  to  be  abroad 
on  Hallow's  Eve,  but  the  girl  who  has  the  courage 
to  look  into  a  well  at  midnight  will  see  the  image  of 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  57 

her  future  husband.  If  she  has  not  the  heart  for  this 
adventure  she  may  learn  his  Christian  name  in  this 
way ;  she  takes  the  peel  of  an  apple  unbroken,  and 
hangs  it  over  the  door  of  her  house.  The  first  man 
who  enters  will  have  her  husband's  name.  On  St 
John's  Eve  they  Ught  great  bonfires,  and  the  young 
people  dance  and  sing  round  them.  A  generation 
ago  the  ceremony  had  more  significance.  The  people 
drove  the  cattle  through  the  fire,  and  afterwards 
scattered  the  ashes  over  their  fields.  I  was  speaking 
to  a  priest  who  remembered  the  survivial  of  this 
custom  in  Donegal.  His  father  and  his  mother 
carried  out  the  ancient  ceremonies,  but  it  was  under- 
stood that  the  young  people  would  not  pay  any  heed 
to  the  observances.  On  St  Bridget's  Day  they  cut 
the  rushes,  out  of  which  are  woven  the  St  Bridget 
crosses.  The  rushes  were  placed  under  the  table  and 
the  feast  was  spread  upon  it.  The  servant  girl  had 
gone  outside.  Now  she  knocked  at  the  door  and  the 
woman  of  the  house  cried  out  in  Irish,  "  Welcome, 
Bridget,"  she  knocked  three  times,  and  three  times 
the  woman  welcomed  her  as  Bridget.  Then  she 
entered  and  sat  down  to  the  feast.  Afterwards  the 
St  Bridget  crosses  were  made.  These  are  rushes 
plaited  into  the  form  of  a  swastika.  In  the  West  of 
Ireland  and  in  the  North  they  hang  on  the  walls  from 
one  St  Bridget's  Day  to  another.  May  Eve  is  remem- 
bered in  parts  of  the  country  as  a  time  sacred  to  the 
Other  People.  Bowls  of  flowers  used  to  be  left  out- 
side the  houses  on  this  occasion.  On  May  Days, 
says  the  writer  of  an  old  account  of  Ireland,  the 
people  decked  their  houses  with  green  boughs. 
This,   says  he,    is    from    a    fantastical    conceit,    for 


58  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

people    expect   that   their    store    of    cattle    vdll    be 
thereby  increased. 

The  fairy  faith  is  gracious  and  imaginative,  but  it 
has  also  suggestions  of  a  savage  world.  There  have 
been  odd  cases  in  which  persons  suspected  of  being 
changelings  have  been  cruelly  treated.  The  creature 
thought  to  be  impersonating  the  human  child  or  the 
stolen  woman  is  held  over  the  fire.  Ireland  kept 
herself  pure  from  the  ferocious  campaigns  against 
witches  that  were  inaugurated  in  the  Puritan 
countries.  But  a  belief  in  the  possibility  of  witchcraft 
Imgers  amongst  us.  In  Ireland  witches  are  harmless 
enough  ;  the  whole  object  of  their  spells  apparently 
is  to  get  the  good  of  their  neighbours  churning.  They 
reap  the  dew  off  the  grass  on  the  morning  of  the  1st 
May,  and  this  action,  with  certain  spells  uttered,  gives 
them  their  power.  Those  against  whom  their  spells 
are  directed  may  churn  and  churn  all  day  but  no 
substance  comes  on  their  milk,  for  the  butter  is  drawn 
to  the  witches'  churn.  In  conformity  with  primitive 
belief,  iron  is  potent  against  witches  and  fairies.  The 
worker  in  iron  also  has  some  magical  powers.  St 
Patrick  invoked  the  might  of  God  against  "  the  spells 
of  women,  and  of  smiths  and  of  Druids,"  and  to  this 
day,  in  certain  parts  of  the  country,  the  smith  has  the 
power  to  work  a  most  evil  spell.  He  turns  his  anvil 
against  the  person  maledicted,  and  calls  on  the  power 
of  the  devil.  Generally  the  smith  can  be  induced 
to  withdraw  his  spell. 


CHAPTER  V 

RELIGION   IN   POPULAR    POETRY 

In  the  matter  of  a  people's  religion  one  need  only  be 
eager  to  know  what  is  essential  in  it  and  what  is 
characteristic.  What  is  characteristic  in  the  faith  of 
the  Irish  peasantry  can  be  distinguished  without  any 
profound  intuition  or  observation,  for  they  have 
expressed  the  religious  side  of  their  life  in  an  abundant 
popular  poetry,  and  the  expression  is  now  accessible 
to  us  in  Dr  Hyde's  collection,  "  The  Religious  Songs 
of  Connacht."  These  songs  show  a  deep  understand- 
ing of  the  sanctity  of  the  things  of  the  hearth,  and  a 
vivid  realisation  of  the  drama  of  the  Passion.  It  is  this 
realisation  and  this  understanding  give  distinctiveness 
to  the  religion  of  the  Irish  Catholic  peasantry.  Dr 
Hyde  took  down  this  popular  poetry  from  the  people 
in  the  Irish  speaking  parts  of  the  country  ;  it  is  no 
longer  current  in  the  districts  where  English  is  now 
spoken.  Nevertheless  one  can  say  that  the  contents 
of  Dr  Hyde's  two  volumes  represents  the  rehgious 
feeling  of  the  whole  of  Catholic  Ireland. 

For  people  in  isolated  cabins  the  pause  of  night  is 
significant.  At  last  the  fire  is  "  raked,"  the  burning 
turf  is  covered  with  ashes  that  the  seed  of  the  fire  may 
be  preserved  till  the  morning.  The  person  who 
"  rakes  "  the  fire  says  : — 

"  I  save  this  seed  of  fire  to-night, 
Even  so  may  Christ  save  me ; 

59 


60  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

On  the  top  of  the  house  let  Mary, 
In  the  middle  let  Bridget  be. 

Let  eight  of  the  mightiest  angels, 
Round  the  throne  of  the  Trinity, 
Protect  this  house  and  its  people 
Till  the  dawn  of  the  day  shall  be." 

The  making  of  the  bed  is  commemorated  in  another 
rehgious  poem : — 

!'  I  make  this  bed 
In  the  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son  and  the  Holy  Spirit, 
In  the  name  of  the  night  we  were  conceived, 
In  the  name  of  the  day  we  were  baptised, 
In  the  name  of  each  night  and  each  day. 
Each  angel  that  is  in  Heaven. 
'  What  art  thou  saying,  Mother  ? ' 
'  Another  little  prayer,  acjra.'' 
'  Good  is  thy  prayer  to  be  said,  0  Mother.' " 

There  are  many  versions  of  the  prayers  to  be  said 
on  l3^ng  down,  and  on  rising  in  the  morning.  They 
are  known  from  Arran  and  the  West  of  Ireland,  to 
Lochaber  in  Scotland.  In  all  of  them  is  poetry  for 
in  all  the  significance  of  life  is  realised.  Sometimes 
a  more  ancient  poetry  is  remembered  as  in  this 
benediction  said  on  milking  a  cow  : — 

"  The  blessing  of  Mary  and  the  blessing  of  God, 
The  blessing  of  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  on  her  road. 
Of  the  Man  in  the  East  and  the  Man  in  the  West, 
And  my  blessing  with  Thee,  and  be  thou  blest." 

The  names  most  cherished  in  Irish  CathoHc  house- 
holds are  the  Blessed  Virgin's  and  St  Bridget's.  In 
Ireland  and  Scotland  where  Gaelic  is  spoken,  the 
name  of  Bridget  is  especially  venerated.  In  Gaelic 
tradition  she  is  the  foster-mother   of   Christ.     It  is 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  61 

possible  that  the  saint  has  taken  over  some  of  the 
homage  paid  to  the  older  Bridget  of  Pagan  Ireland, 
who  was  patron  of  the  poets,  and  whose  name  signifies 
"  a  fiery  dart."  The  name  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  is 
dwelt  upon  at  all  times.  It  is  characteristic  of  Gaelic 
piety  that  there  should  be  a  distinction  between  the 
name  of  Mary  as  given  to  the  Virgin,  and  the  name 
Mary  as  given  to  a  woman.  "  Mwire  "  is  the  sacred 
name,  and  "  Maurya  "  the  familiar  name.  Into  the 
drama  of  the  Passion  the  Irish  people  have  projected 
their  customs,  their  history  and  their  temperament. 
The  part  of  Mary  the  Mother  has  been  the  subject  of 
intense  meditation.  The  noblest  poem  in  "  The 
Religious  Songs  of  Connacht "  commemorates  the 
Passion  from  Mary's  side  : — 

"  When  the  Virgin  had  heard  Him 
And  His  sorrowful  saying 

(Ochone  agus  ochone,  0  !), 
She  sprang  past  His  keepers 
To  the  three  of  His  slaying 
(Ochone  agus  ochone,  0  !). 

'  What  fine  man  hangs  there 
In  the  dust  and  the  smother  ? ' 

(Ochone  agus  ochone,  0  !) 
'  And  do  you  not  know  Ham  1 
He  is  your  Son,  0  Mother  ! ' 

(Ochone  agus  ochone,  0  !) 

They  cast  Him  down  from  them 
A  mass  of  limbs  bleeding 

(Ochone  agus  ochone,  0  !). 
'  There  now  He  is  for  you ; 
Now  go  to  your  keening ' 

(Ochone  agus  ochone,  O  !)." 


62  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  There  go  to  your  keening."  The  words  may  have 
been  used  by  a  deputy  in  Connacht  or  Munster  as  he 
threw  down  to  the  mourners  some  young  man  "  a 
mass  of  Hmbs  bleeding."  It  is  related  to  the  people's 
lives,  this  story  of  the  Child  born  in  hardship,  betrayed 
in  His  manhood,  mocked  at  and  crucified.  The 
present  generation  in  Ireland  experienced  something 
of  the  long  subjection  of  their  race.  And  this  sense 
of  being  dominated  by  a  powerful  and  worldly  class 
must  have  been  stronger  as  the  generations  go  back. 
Nevertheless,  subjection  has  not  created  in  their 
religious  poetry  that  overpowering  sense  of  pity  that 
we  expect  to  find  in  the  memorials  of  another  religious 
people — the  Russians.  In  these  religious  songs  the 
prevailing  mood  is  kindliness.  Fortunately  for  our 
meaning  the  word  "  kind "  has  also  reference  to 
blood  relationships.  These  loved  and  venerated 
figures  have  been  adopted  into  the  Gaelic  clan. 

"Remember  those  from  whom  you  sprang. 
Strive  earnestly  on  their  behalf," 

cries  David  O'Bruadar  in  his  poem  to  the  Virgin. 
At  the  root  of  this  religious  poetry  there  is  that 
which  is  at  the  root  of  the  good  manners  of  the  Irish 
peasantry — a  sense  of  equality  that  does  not  allow 
either  condescension  or  servility.  As  the  congrega- 
tion leaves  the  chapel  a  man  or  woman  will  turn 
round  and  say  in  his  homely  speech  :  "  Farewell, 
Christ,  farewell,  Mary.  The  apostles  keep  me  till  I 
come  again." 

Strangers  in  Ireland  have  been  led  to  comment 
upon  the  fideUty  with  which  the  people  fulfil  the 
obligation  of  hearing  Mass.     In  DubHn,  on  Sundays 


A   MADONNA   OF   THE    WEST. 
(From  an  oil  painting  by  Beatrice  Elvery  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  C.  P.Curran.) 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  63 

or  on  holidays,  the  churches  are  filled  to  the  doors. 
But  it  is  in  country  districts  that  one  sees  the  typical 
Irish  congregations.  The  gathering  at  the  Chapel 
has  some  of  the  characteristics  of  a  public  assembly 
of  which  the  priest  is  president.  In  an  interval  of 
the  service  he  makes  announcements  of  this  or  that 
meeting  to  be  held  outside  the  chapel  after  Mass. 
From  the  altar  he  speaks  to  the  people  of  the  necessity 
for  spraying  potatoes  or  hastening  land  purchase. 
The  attitude  of  the  people  is  naturally  religious  even 
though  these  secular  affairs  are  glanced  at.  After 
Mass  the  people  attend  to  the  speaker  from  the  Party, 
from  the  Agricultural  Organisation  Society,  or  from 
the  Gaelic  League.  In  well-living  Catholic  households 
private  devotion  is  added  to  the  public  devotion  of  a 
Sunday.  At  night  one  may  be  going  by  a  roadside 
cabin ;  there  is  a  light  in  the  window,  and  as  one 
passes  one  hears  the  recital  of  prayer,  the  grave 
responses,  the  long  recitation  of  a  litany.  Within  a 
family  are  offering  up  a  rosary.  The  attitude  of  the 
people  is  consistently  devout.  A  woman  with  a 
shawl  across  her  head  is  mounting  a  car.  Because 
she  is  going  on  a  journey,  she  makes  the  sign  of  the 
cross  and  bends  her  head  for  a  moment. 

Their  reUgion  has  never  made  the  people  bigots  or 
persecutors.  Because  they  have  religious  connections, 
certain  people  are  ready  to  think  of  them  as  "  priest 
ridden."  In  "  The  Religious  Songs  of  Connacht," 
there  are  pieces  to  show  how  well  the  Irish  Catholics 
can  detect  and  satirise  worldliness  or  avarice  in 
ministers  of  religion.  They  have  intimations  of  a 
spiritual  world,  but  these  do  not  leave  them  "  poisoned 
with  piety."     The  religion  of  the  Irish  people  is  part 


64  MY  miSH  YEAR 

of  their  existence,  and  they  live  wiih  it  easily  and 
gladly.  The  gaiety  of  their  spiritual  life  is  in  this 
little  song : — 

"  A  ingr&fit  p^^sjer  npcm.  cbe  Air, 

Mj  c&id  tan^  me. 
Avake  Aere,  tiie  mom  b  fair, 

Hk  birds  ang  free, 
Xow  d^wns  Lhe  day.  awake  and  fsxy, 

Aiid  tiend  the  knee. 
The  Lainb  wao  lay  bezwaA  tke  day, 

Wi5  s'aira  hx  thee." 


CHAPTER  VL 

SOXGS,    STORIES    AXD    COXVEB5ATIOX5 

Sixty  years  ago  the  people  of  this  part  of  the  countiy 
were  in  possession  of  a  medium  along  which  was 
passed  the  song  of  yesterday,  the  poem  made  five 
hmidred  years  ago,  the  story  that  has  existed  for  a 
thousand   years.     They    spoke   the   Irish   language. 
The  child  who  went  to  our  first  National  schooL  left 
a  house  in  which  traditional  f>oetry,  songs  and  stories 
were  known,  with  Ossianic  lays  and  traditional  Irish 
history.     No  wise  and  humane  system  of  bilingual 
iostruction  was  permitted  id  the  schools.     The  child 
was  forced  to  read  a  language  he  had  never  heard 
spoken,  and  a  teacher  was  forbidden  to  enlighten  his 
mind  by  an  explanation  in  the  language  that  was 
famihar  to  both.     The  Board  of  National  Education 
was  bent  upon  destroying  the  Irish  language.     And 
the  people  agreed  to  sec-ond  the  eSort  of  the  Board. 
At  home  it  was  almost  a  religious  obligation  not  to 
let  the  child  hear  a  word  of  Irish.     The  language 
was  being  attacked  iq  the  school  and  id  the  home. 
Then  came  the  famine  of  1S46-T.     The  Ireland  that 
survived  that  unimaginable  disaster  was  like  a  person 
who  had  received  a  blow  on  the  head.     Memory  was 
shattered. 

I  knew  two  men  who  were  survivors  from  the  period 


,  I 


66  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

before  the  famine.  I  remember  that  one  was  con- 
stantly making  notes  in  Irish,  and  that  he  had  manu- 
scripts in  his  house.  No  one  gave  him  any  attention, 
and  when  he  died  his  manuscripts  were  burned.^ 
The  other  old  man  lived  down  to  a  time  when  I  began 
to  take  any  interest  in  the  tradition  by  these  strange 
elders.  He  must  have  been  a  scholar  in  his  day,  for 
the  poetry  in  Irish  which  he  liked  to  repeat  was 
always  some  of  MacHale's  translations  of  Moore's 
Irish  songs.  He  would  also  repeat  passages  from  the 
Irish  version  of  the  "  Iliad."  My  friend  was  satirised 
rather  than  respected  by  the  peasants.  I  imagine 
that  the  first  man  had  all  the  lore  which  Carleton  tells 
us  that  his  father  possessed.  "  All  kinds  of  charms, 
old  ranns  or  poems,  old  prophecies,  religious  super- 
stitions, tales  of  pilgrims,  miracles  and  pilgrimages, 
anecdotes  of  blessed  priests  and  friars,  revelations 
from  ghosts  and  fairies." 

The  people  are  lively  minded  and  they  are  con- 

1  Sixty  years  ago  quantities  of  manuscripts  must  have  been  extant 
in  peasant  houses.  Doctor  Hyde  in  his  "  Literary  History  of  Ireland  " 
tells  how  a  friend  of  his^  travelling  in  the  Co.  Clare,  found  children 
tearing  three  manuscripts  to  pieces.  The  manuscripts  were  sent  to 
Dr  Hyde.  One  of  them  was  about  one  hundred  years  old,  and 
contained  a  saga  called  '^'The  Love  of  Dubhlacha  for  Mongan." 
M.  d'Arbois  de  Joubainville  had  searched  the  libraries  for  this  story, 
and  Pr.  Kuno  Meyer  and  Mr  Alfred  Nutt  considered  it  of  the  highest 
value  as  elucidating  the  psychology  of  the  ancient  Irish.  Dr  Hyde 
quotes  a  letter  that  he  received  from  a  peasant.  "I  could  read  many 
of  the  Irish  Fenian  (Ossianic)  tales  and  poems  that  was  in  my  father's 
manuscripts,  he  had  a  large  collection  of  them.  I  was  often  sorry 
for  letting  them  go  to  loss,  for  I  could  not  copy  the  ^^th  of  them." 
Another  peasant  wrote  :  "  About  twenty  years  since  I  was  able  to 
tell  two  dozen  of  Ossians  Irish  poems  and  some  of  Rafterys'  and  more 
Rymes  composed  by  others,  but  since  then  no  one  has  asked  me  to  tell 
one  Irish  story  at  a  wake  or  by  a  fireside  sine  the  old  people  died. 
Therefore  when  I  had  no  practise  I  forgot  all  the  stories  I  had." 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  67 

tinuously  making  mental  interest  for  themselves,  but 
the  person  who  comes  amongst  them  seeking  for 
traditional  lore  will  be  apt  to  think  that  their  imagina- 
tive life  is  as  flat  as  their  natural  landscape.  The 
heroic  romances  and  the  folk  romances  have  sur- 
vived only  in  fragments  and  odd  references.  The 
poetry  represented  by  the  "  Love  Songs  of  Connacht  " 
and  "  The  Rehgious  Songs  of  Connacht  "  have  been 
lost  in  the  change  from  the  Irish  to  the  English 
language.  But  the  people  are  eager  about  songs  and 
stories.  Everybody  except  some  odd  anti-social 
beings  wants  to  know  songs,  and  the  most  acceptable 
present  one  could  make  to  a  country  boy  or  girl  is 
a  book  of  songs  that  would  not  be  unfamiliar.  In 
every  cottage  there  is  a  song-book,  and  the  young  men 
buy  the  ballads  that  are  hawked  about  in  broad 
sheets.  One  can  hardly  describe  as  traditional  the 
songs  known  here;  only  a  few  come  from  former 
generations.  Some  have  been  learned  from  broad 
sheets,  some  have  been  brought  back  from  England 
by  harvesters,  and  some  have  been  composed  by 
known  people.  Of  the  songs  which  the  people  of  the 
Midlands  possess,  the  most  interesting  to  my  mind 
are  those  which  show  some  Gaelic  influence.  The 
other  day  I  took  down  a  fragment  of  a  song  which 
has  the  Gaelic  structure.  The  original  was  evidently 
popular  about  the  transition  period,  and  the  person 
who  translated  it  was  familiar  with  the  Irish  and  not 
familiar  with  the  English  forms  of  versification  : — 

"  I'd  spread  my  cloak  for  you,  young  lad, 
If  'twas  only  the  breadth  of  a  farthen, 
And  if  your  mmd  was  as  good  as  your  word, 
In  troth  it's  you  I'd  rather  ; 


68  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

In  dread  of  any  jealousy, 
And  before  we  go  any  farther, 
Hoist  me  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill, 
And  show  me  Carricknabauna." 

In  Irish  verse  the  rhyme  is  assonantal ;  that  is,  it 
consists  in  the  agreement  of  vowel  sounds ;  the  vowels 
being  strongly  pronounced,  there  is  abundance  of  such 
combinations  as  "  bathe  "  and  "  lave,"  "  thought  " 
and  "  fault,"  "  autumn  "  and  "  water."  A  whole 
poem  is  often  rhymed  on  a  single  vowel  sound.  In 
this  fragment  the  correspondences  are  in  "  farthen," 
"  rather,"  "  farther."  This  suggests  an  attempt  to 
rhyme  the  stanza  on  the  broad  "  a  "  in  "  bauna." 
Possibly  the  whole  of  the  original  was  rhymed  on 
this  sound.  The  Gaelic  structure  is  completely 
achieved  in  a  ballad  which  I  have  often  heard  sung 
on  the  roadway  and  by  the  fireside,  "  The  Lament  for 
Hugh  Reynolds,  who  was  hanged  for  stealing  away 
a  Young  Lady."  ^ 

"  My  name  it  is  Hugh  Reynolds,  I  come  of  honest  parents ; 
Near  Cavan  I  was  born  as  plainly  you  may  see, 
By  loving  of  a  maid,  one  Catherme  MacCabe, 
My  life  has  been  betrayed — she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

The  country  were  bewaihng  my  doleful  situation. 
But  still  I'd  expectation  this  maid  would  set  me  free  ; 
But  oh  !   she  was  ungrateful,  her  parents  proved  deceitful, 
And  though  I  loved  her  faithful,  she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

Young  men  and  tender  maidens,  throughout  the  Irish  nation, 
Who  hear  my  lamentations,  I  hope  you'll  pray  for  me ; 
The  truth  I  will  unfold,  that  my  precious  blood  she  sold. 
In  the  grave  I  must  lie  cold — she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

^  After  the  first  stanza,  instead  of  assonance,  rhyme  is  used,  but 
according  to  the  Gaelic  rule  of  interlinear  correspondence. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  69 

For  now  my  glass  is  rmi,  and  my  hour  it  is  come, 

And  I  must  die  for  love,  and  height  of  loyalty  ; 

I  thought  it  was  no  harm,  to  embrace  her  in  my  arms, 

And  take  her  from  her  parents — she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

Adieu  my  loving  father,  adieu  my  tender  mother, 
Farewell  my  dearest  brother,  who  has  suffered  sore  for  me ; 
With  irons  I'm  surrounded,  in  gTief  I  lie  confounded. 
By  perjury  unbounded — she's  a  dear  maid  to  me. 

Now  I  can  say  no  more,  to  the  law-board  I  must  go, 
There  to  take  the  last  farewell  of  my  friends  and  countrie  ; 
May  the  angels  shining  bright,  receive  my  soul  this  night, 
And  convey  me  into  Heaven  to  the  blessed  Trinity." 

In  the  traditional  songs  a  distinctive  rhythm  is  as 
evident  as  a  distinctive  structure.  This  distinctive 
rhythm  is  based  upon  Irish  music.  The  other  day  I 
took  down  this  fragment. 

"  When  we  lived  together  each  other  we  did  adore, 
This  green  little  island  we  wandered  it  o'er  and  o'er ; 
We  worked  at  our  trade  and  our  earnings  we  spent  quite  free, 
But  now  you  have  left  me,  Mo  Drahareen  oge  mo  chree.^ 

And  now  I  am  left  like  a  sorrowful  bird  of  the  night. 
The  earth  and  its  pleasures  no  more  can  afford  me  delight ; 
The  dark  narrow  grave  is  the  only  sad  refuge  for  me, 
Since  I  lost  my  heart's  darling,  Mo  Drahareen  oge  me  chree."  '^ 

I  heard  it  in  the  Midlands,  but  it  must  have  been 
brought  from  the  West.  Its  rhythm  is  identical 
with  that  of  a  version  of  an  Irish  poem  given  in  the 

^  Dear  young  brother  of  my  heart. 

-  Thomas  Moore  may  be  said  to  have  brought  Gaelic  rhythms  into 
English  verse,  and  through  IMoore  they  have  come  into  the  verse  of 
Shelley,  Byron  and  Swinburne.  But  before  Moore's  day  a  Gaelic 
rhythm  has  occurred — it  is  in  Lady  Nairn's  "  Lament  for  Culloden." 
I  do  not  know  if  the  "  Lament  for  Culloden"  had  a  Gaelic  original — 
it  is  probably  written  with  the  memory  of  Gaelic  music. 


70  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  Oxford  Book  of  English  Verse,"  "  The  Outlaw  of 
Lough  Lene." 

The  people  like  a  literary  flavour  in  their  songs. 
"  No  good  ballads  are  made  now,"  said  a  countryman 
to  me ;  "  sure,  the  people  haven't  the  language." 
His  own  language  was  splendid,  being  vigorous  and 
close  to  the  sod,  and  this  was  his  idea  of  poetic  diction. 
In  the  song  a  lady  is  making  a  proposal  of  marriage 
to  a  country  boy  : — 

"  Dear  Willie,  you'll  roll  in  great  splendour, 
With  lords,  dukes  and  earls  of  great  fame, 
And  you'll  correspond  with  these  nobles, 
And  of  course  you  will  equal  the  same." 

I  remember  that  the  song  was  sung  to  me  by  a 
Cavan  fowl-buyer,  as  we  both  traversed  the  O'Reilly 
country  in  the  fowl-buyer's  van.  This  other  song 
that  he  gave  me  was  native  to  the  spot : — 

"  It  was  near  Southwell  fair  castle  this  young  man  was  bred, 
And  his  parents  they  reared  him  without  fear  or  dread ; 
For  good  education  none  could  him  excel. 
And  his  last  declaration  I  am  now  going  to  tell. 

It  being  a  fair  morning  I  heard  people  say, 
To  the  sweet  county  Leitrim  he  straight  took  his  way, 
Where  Humes,  the  bloody  traitor  with  his  armed  baud 
Opposed  valiant  Reilly  and  caused  him  to  stand. 

Like  Hercules,  undaunted,  he  did  them  oppose. 
But  being  far  from  his  friends,  in  the  midst  of  his  foes, 
And  having  no  armour,  no  sword  and  no  shield. 
At  length  valiant  Reilly  was  forced  for  to  yield. 

The  groves  of  Killeshandra  no  more  they'll  be  green, 
Nor  the  warbling  fine  thrushes  no  more  shall  they  sing. 
And  the  trout  in  Lough  Oughter  no  more  they  shall  spawn. 
Since  the  downfall  of  Reilly  called  Paddy  Shan  Baun." 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  71 

That  there  is  only  one  classical  name  in  this  song 
is  a  matter  for  surprise.  Ballads  of  this  kind  are 
generally  stuffed  with  such  names  as  Telemachus, 
Polyphemus,  Hector,  Orpheus,  Dido,  Helen.  The 
fashion  must  be  over  now,  for  the  other  day  in  a 
cottage  I  heard  a  delightful  parody  of  the  older 
ballads.  I  cannot  find  it  now.  Instead  of  it,  I  find 
in  my  collection  of  Midland  songs  a  version  of  the 
Scots  ballad  "  Edward."  Not  as  poetry,  but  as  a 
momento  of  the  period  of  "  Small  swords "  and 
"  Free  lands,"  and  as  a  souvenir  of  an  unsuspected 
literary  commerce  it  is  interesting. 

"  What  blood  is  that  on  your  small  sword  ? 
Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me. 
That's  the  blood  of  my  brother  John, 
And  a  fair  lady. 

What  came  between  you  and  your  brother  John  1 

Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me. 
About  the  cutting  down  of  a  pretty  little  twig, 

That  was  growing  to  become  a  tree. 

What  will  you  do  when  your  father  comes  home  ? 

Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me, 
I'll  put  my  foot  on  yon  ship  board, 

And  sail  from  this  country. 

And  what  will  you  do  with  your  pretty  race  mare  1 

Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me. 
I'll  take  the  saddle  from  off  her  back. 

She'll  race  no  more  for  me. 

What  will  you  do  with  your  pretty  pack  of  hounds  ? 

Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me. 
I'll  take  the  collars  from  off  their  necks. 

They'll  hunt  no  more  for  me. 


72  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

What  will  you  do  with  your  children  three  1 

Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me. 
I'll  leave  them  with  you,  dearest  Mother,  he  says. 

To  keep  you  company. 

What  will  you  do  with  your  house  and  free  lands  1 

Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me. 
I'll  leave  them  with  you,  dearest  Mother,  he  says, 

To  maintain  my  children  three. 

What  will  you  do  with  your  pretty  little  wife  ? 

Come,  son,  pray  tell  it  unto  me. 
She'll  put  her  foot  on  yon  ship  board. 

And  sail  along  with  me." 

The  songs  most  characteristic  of  the  Midlands  are 
the  poHtical  ballads  which  the  people  call  "  Secret 
songs  "  or  "  Treason  songs."  They  are  as  full  of 
obscure  references  as  a  symbolist  poem.  Indeed, 
their  unfailing  symbolism  is  their  most  noticeable 
characteristic.  In  the  songs  of  every  subject  people 
there  must  be  an  enigmatic  expression.  But  the 
obscurity  of  our  political  songs  is  due  to  another 
motive  besides  the  practical  one  of  concealing  a 
hope  or  an  intention ;  one  perceives  in  them  that 
bias  which  a  French  historian  has  detected  in  the 
Irish  mediaeval  philosophers  :  "  The  Celtic  partiality 
for  the  rare,  the  difficult,  the  esoteric :  strange 
combinations  of  words  and  ideas  ;  enigmas,  acrostics, 
occult  languages,  cryptography."  Here  is  a  ballad 
which  is  typical  of  the  older  political  songs.  It  was 
given  to  me  by  a  peasant  in  the  County  Longford  ^ : — 

1  I  should  say  that  the  last  verse  was  an  interpolation.  The  song 
is  older  than  O'Connell's  epoch^,  for  "the  gardener"  and  "the 
huntsman"  stand  for  the  Jacobite  deliverer  who  will  come  from  across 
the  water.  There  must  have  been  an  Irish  original,  because  the  term 
"  deer ''  for  the  outlanders  is  palpably  a  translation  of  an  opprobrious 
epithet  which  in  Irish  is  applied  to  the  stag. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  73 

"  I  planted  a  garden  of  the  laurel  so  fine, 
In  hopes  to  preserve  it  for  a  true  love  of  mine  ; 
By  some  treason  or  storm  the  roots  did  decay, 
And  I'm  left  here  forlorn  by  my  darling's  delay. 

This  garden's  gone  wUd  for  the  want  of  good  seed  ; 
There's  nought  growing  in  it  but  the  outlandish  weed, 
Some  nettles  and  briars  and  shrubs  of  each  kind ; 
Search  this  garden  all  over,  not  a  true  plant  you'll  find. 

In  one  of  those  gardens  a  violet  doth  spring, 
'Tis  preserved  by  a  Goddess  and  wore  by  a  King  ; 
It  blooms  in  all  seasons,  and  'tis  hard  to  be  seen  ; 
There's  none  fit  to  wear  it  but  a  Prince  or  a  Queen. 

I'll  send  for  a  gardener  to  France  or  to  Spain, 
That  will  cultivate  those  gardens  and  sow  the  true  grain, 
That  will  banish  those  nettles  and  the  wild  weeds  away  ; 
Bring  a  total  destruction  on  them  night  and  day. 

This  garden's  invaded  this  many  a  year. 
By  hundreds  and  thousands  of  the  outlandish  deer. 
With  their  horns  extending  they  are  overgrown  ; 
They  thought  to  make  Ireland  for  ever  their  own. 

I'll  send  for  a  huntsman  that  soon  will  arrive. 
With  a  stout  pack  of  beagles  to  hunt  and  to  drive 
Over  highlands  and  lowlands,  through  cold,  frost  and  snow, 
No  shelter  to  shade  them  wherever  they  go. 

Now  to  conclude  and  to  finish  my  song. 
May  the  Lord  send  some  hero,  and  that  before  long  ; 
May  the  Lord  send  some  hero  of  fame  and  renown  ; 
We'll  send  George  to  Hanover  and  O'Connell  we'll  crown." 

"  The  oul'  men  who  remembered  the  battle  of 
Granard  used  to  cry  tears  down  when  I  used  to  sing 
them  that  song,"  said  the  man  who  gave  it  to  me. 
I  could  well  believe  him.  Such  songs  may  not 
appeal  to  the  practical  will,  but  they  reach  the  im- 


U  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

aginative  memory.  They  have  this  strangeness : 
they  touch  the  heart  of  an  Irish  person  in  Ireland, 
as  the  songs  of  his  own  country  would  touch  the  heart 
of  an  exile.  The  newspapers  are  now  bringing 
actuality  into  the  conflict,  and  the  old  convention 
of  the  political  songs  is  being  destroyed.  But  still, 
the  street  ballads  sings  of  Ireland  under  the  name  of 
"  Granuaile  "  and  "  Shan  Van  Vocht."  i 

Every  piper  and  fiddler  on  the  roads  of  Ireland 
knows  the  "  Royal  Blackbird,"  and  if  you  ask  them 
for  it,  you  will  hear  a  tune  to  remember.  The  music 
is  hard  to  associate  with  defeat,  it  is  so  beautiful  and 
proud ;  nevertheless  it  celebrates  the  Stuart  cause. 
The  words  that  go  with  the  music  make  another 
"  secret  song  "  : — 

"  On  a  fair  summer  morning  of  soft  recreation, 
I  heard  a  fair  lady  a-making  a  moan 
With  sighing  and  sobbing  and  sad  lamentation, 
A-saying,  "  My  Blackbird  most  royal  is  flown. 
My  thoughts  do  deceive  me, 
Reflections  do  grieve  me. 
And  I  am  overwhelmed  with  sad  misery. 
Yet  if  Death  should  blind  me, 
As  true  love  inclines  me. 
My  Blackbird  I'll  seek  out  wherever  he  be. 

Once  in  fair  England  my  Blackbird  did  flourish. 
He  was  the  chief  flower  that  in  it  did  spring, 

Prime  ladies  of  honour  his  person  did  nourish. 
Because  that  he  was  the  true  son  of  a  King. 

^  To  the  Irish  mind  it  is  natui-al  that  a  symbolic  speech  should  go 
with  the  announcement  of  National  strivings.  AVilliam  Blake  is 
certainly  Irish  when  he  speaks  in  the  prophetic  books  of  Albion  and 
Jerusalem,  of  Erin,  France  and  America,  and  the  old  men  by  an  Irish 
fireside  would  be  kindled  by  some  of  his  esoteric  passages. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  75 

But  this  false  fortune, 

Which  still  is  uncertain, 
Has  caused  the  parting  between  him  and  me. 

His  name  I'll  advance. 

In  Spain  and  in  France, 
And  I'll  seek  out  my  Blackbird  wherever  he'll  be. 

In  England  my  Blackbird  and  I  were  together 

When  he  was  still  noble  and  generous  of  heart, 
And  woe  to  the  time  when  he  first  went  from  hither, 
Alas  !   he  was  forced  from  thence  to  depart. 

In  Scotland  he's  deemed, 

And  highly  esteemed. 
In  England  he  seemed  a  stranger  to  be. 

Yet  his  name  shall  remain, 

In  France  and  in  Spain, 
All  bliss  to  my  Blackbird  wherever  he  be. 

It  is  not  the  ocean  can  fright  me  with  danger, 
For  though  like  a  Pilgrim  I  wander  forlorn, 
I  may  still  meet  with  friendship  from  one  that's  a  stranger, 
Much  more  than  from  one  that  in  England  was  bom. 

Oh,  Heaven  so  spacious  ! 

To  Britain  be  gracious, 
Though  some  there  be  odious  to  him  and  to  me. 

Yet  joy  and  renoun. 

And  laurel  shall  crown. 
My  Blackbird  with  honour  wherever  he  be." 

One  evening,  in  a  Longford  cottage,  when  the 
music  of  the  "  Royal  Blackbird  "  had  been  played 
and  the  verses  repeated,  a  man  told  me  a  story  of 
Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald.  Since  then  in  my  mind, 
a  gallant  name  is  set  to  that  gallant  music.  Lord 
Edward  was  amongst  the  organisers  of  the  Insur- 
rection of  1798,  but  he  was  struck  down  before  the 
outbreak.  He  belonged  to  a  family  that  was  at  the 
head  of  the  Irish  aristocracy,  and  he  had  married 


76  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  mysterious  protegee  of  Madame  de  Genlis, 
Pamela,  whom  some  thought  to  be  the  daughter  of 
Phihp  EgaHte. 

The  story  told  of  the  meeting  of  Pamela  and  Lord 
Edward,  and,  as  related,  it  had  the  simplicity  of  the 
folk-tale  and  some  of  its  charming  turns.  When  he 
was  a  young  man  Lord  Edward  heard  much  of  the 
lewdness  of  London.  For  a  long  time  he  did  not 
credit  the  stories.  He  thought  they  were  made  up 
to  discredit  the  people  of  London.  More  and  more 
the  stories  oppressed  him,  and  at  last  he  decided 
to  go  in  person  and  find  out  if  London  was  really 
depraved.  He  went  over.  One  night  he  put  on  a 
disguise,  and  went  down  a  very  evil  street.  Now, 
a  lady  in  Paris  had  also  been  oppressed  by  such  tales 
of  wickedness.  She  had  come  to  London,  bringing 
her  aunt.  They  had  taken  lodgings.  One  night 
the  young  lady  disguised  herself  and  went  into  the 
ill  street.  Like  Lord  Edward,  she  was  concerned 
to  discover  or  deny  the  depravity.  Its  bad  report 
had  brought  Lord  Edward  and  herself  into  the  same 
street.  The  lady  was  disguised  as  an  old  beggar- 
woman. 

Maybe  she  was  wishful  to  know  what  sort  was  the 
young  man  who  was  in  the  wicked  street  at  an  ill 
hour.  "  A  mhic,^''  said  she,  "  would  you  help  an  old 
woman  to  such  a  number  ?  "  Lord  Edward  offered 
his  arm.  She  did  not  take  it.  They  went  down  the 
street  together.  Lord  Edward  was  very  watchful, 
being  in  such  a  street  and  he  noticed  that  the  woman 
kept  her  hand  from  him.  "  Give  me  your  hand," 
said  he,  but  still  she  kept  her  hand  away.  Then  he 
snatched  her  hand.     It  was  the  hand  of  a  young 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  77 

girl.  "  Who  are  you,"  said  he.  The  girl  ran  from 
him,  and  let  herself  into  a  house.  "  To-morrow 
I'm  going  to  Paris  with  my  aunt,"  she  said. 

"  The  next  day  Lord  Edward  went  to  Paris.  When 
he  woke  up  in  the  hotel  he  asked  what  sport  there 
was  in  the  town.  He  was  told  that  there  would  be 
a  great  ball  that  night  in  the  Royal  Palace.  Lord 
Edward  went  to  the  ball,  and  the  first  one  he  saw 
among  the  dancers  was  the  girl  who  had  disguised 
herself.  The  moment  she  saw  him  she  asked  a  lady 
to  take  her  place  in  the  dance,  and  she  came  over  to 
him.  It  wasn't  one  hand  she  gave  him  this  time. 
She  gave  him  her  two  hands. 

"  He  used  to  be  out  at  night  drilling  the  people 
with  Wolfe  Tone.  She  never  said,  '  Edward,  where 
were  you  last  night  ? '  though  she  knew  it  would 
turn  out  bad  work  for  him.  His  mother  used  to  be 
very  fond  of  her.  She  was  so  fond  of  her  that  she 
used  to  take  the  young  woman  to  sleep  on  her  lap. 
But  after  the  death  of  Lord  Edward  the  mother 
turned  altogether  against  the  young  wife.  She  was 
very  lonesome  then.  She  had  three  children.  She 
left  Ireland,  bringing  her  children  with  her,  and  no 
one  had  any  account  of  them  ever  after." 

In  this  tale  the  people  are  of  our  world.  Beside 
it  I  will  put  a  story  in  which  some  of  the  characters 
are  of  the  strange  kingdom  of  the  sea.  The  tale 
does  not  belong  to  our  county ;  it  was  told  to  myself 
and  some  others  by  a  priest  who  had  come  amongst 
us  from  the  kingdom  of  Kerry. 

Iveragh,  in  West  Kerry,  opens  out  of  the  Atlantic 
ocean.  Once  upon  a  time  a  boat  was  coming  in  from 
the  fishing.    The  anchor  was  let  down,  and  the  men 


78  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

found  they  could  not  draw  it  up  again.  Lots  were 
taken  as  to  who  should  dive  to  release  the  anchor. 
The  lot  fell  on  the  one  who  had  let  it  down.  He 
was  "  Clusach "  OTalvey,  a  youth  noted  for  his 
exploits  on  the  land.  He  was  a  great  runner,  and 
the  best  in  the  district  at  the  game  of  hurhng. 
O'Falvey  went  into  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

This  was  the  reason  why  the  anchor  could  not  be 
drawn  up.  Its  swing  had  forced  the  door  of  a  palace 
under  the  waves.  There  was  a  lady  there,  and  one 
of  her  eyes  had  been  put  out  by  the  stroke  of  the 
anchor.  O'Falvey  entered  the  palace  ;  he  was  held 
by  the  lady  as  an  eric  (compensation)  for  the  loss 
of  her  eye.  All  sorts  of  tempting  viands  were  offered 
him,  but  O'Falvey  declined  to  partake.  He  knew 
that  any  of  the  food  would  lessen  his  desire  to  return 
to  the  land.  He  told  the  sea-fairy  that  there  was 
one  business  to  which  he  was  bound,  and  he  gave 
her  his  word  that  he  would  return  to  the  sea  when 
that  business  was  accomplished.  She  released  him 
then,  and  O'Falvey  went  back  to  his  comrades.  I 
do  not  know  that  he  told  his  adventure,  but  I  know 
that  he  had  no  inclination  to  leave  the  world  of  wind 
and  light.  He  did  not  abide  by  his  promise.  He 
no  longer  went  fishing.  He  knew  that  the  fairy  had 
power  over  the  element,  and  he  made  no  approach 
to  the  sea. 

One  day  the  young  men  of  Iveragh  were  playing 
at  hurley.  O'Falvey  struck  the  ball.  So  great  was 
the  force  of  his  stroke  that  it  drove  the  ball  as  far 
as  the  bare  strand.  O'Falvey  made  after  the  ball. 
Striking  it  before  him,  he  headed  back  to  the  players. 
He  had  forgotten  his  dread  of  the  waves  in  the  rush 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  79 

of  the  game.  But  now  the  sea  Hfted  itself  up,  as 
a  great  crest  of  waves,  and  came  after  the  man. 
The  runner  was  too  swift  for  the  first  line  of  water. 
But  the  sea  took  the  ball  before  it  drew  back  to 
gather  force.  A  second  time  the  sea  rose  up.  With 
mighty  power  the  waves  came  after  the  running 
man.  This  time  the  waves  swept  the  hurley  from 
his  hand.  Again  the  sea  drew  back  to  gather  force. 
Each  time  the  waves  had  gained  something  from 
the  man.  And  now,  with  its  last  and  mightiest 
impulse,  the  sea  came  after  him.  Fleet  as  a  deer, 
O'Falvey  ran  for  his  naked  life.  The  crest  of  the 
sea  broke — the  outer  waves  surrounded  him — 
O'Falvey  was  taken  by  the  sea. 

It  was  with  his  comrades  around  him  that  he  went 
back  to  the  sea.  Before  he  went  below  the  waves 
he  promised  to  send  a  token  every  year  to  the  people 
on  the  land.  For  fourteen  years  the  token  came, 
a  half-burnt  sod  of  turf.  Then  it  ceased  to  come 
on  the  waves,  and  the  people  knew  that  "  Clusach  " 
O'Falvey  had  lost  his  attachment  to  the  upper  world. 
Since  that  time  the  sea  has  covered  a  portion  of  the 
land  of  Iveragh. 

The  people  have  no  sense  of  historic  time.  They 
say,  "  St  Patrick  and  St  Colum  were  going  through 
the  country,  and  at  that  time  Farral  Markey's  grand- 
father lived  on  the  Island."  Here  is  the  tale  of  how 
the  fair  was  established  at  Ballinalea.  Saint  Patrick 
was  passing  through  the  village,  and  he  called  at  a 
house  for  a  drink  of  milk.  "  I'll  have  to  give  you  the 
child's  share,"  said  the  woman  of  the  house,  "  for 
the  times  are  very  scarce  since  Orangeism  broke  out 
in  this  part  of  the  country."     "  I'll  not  take  any  of 


80  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  milk,  my  poor  woman,"  said  Saint  Patrick, 
"  and  I'll  give  you  a  direction  that  will  be  for  the 
increase  of  your  store.  Wlien  next  Tuesday  comes 
walk  down  as  far  as  the  big  tree.  And  if  you  meet 
a  man  coming  towards  you  it  will  be  for  your  luck. 
Do  what  he  will  tell  you."  That  day  week,  when 
she  went  towards  the  big  tree,  the  first  person  the 
woman  met  was  a  man  driving  a  cow.  He  told  her 
to  drive  the  beast  into  her  own  byre.  And  that's 
how  the  first  fair  came  to  Ballinalea. 

The  heroic  tales  that  are  gathered  round  Finn  and 
Cuchulain  have  been  forgotten  by  the  people  of  this 
place.  Finn's  name  is  remembered,  but  the  hero 
has  become  a  big  eater  and  an  extravagant  liar. 
The  other  day  I  heard  a  story  about  the  Gobaun 
Saor.  He  is  out  of  the  very  oldest  cycle  of  stories, 
for  he  was  the  Smith  and  Builder  for  the  gods.  In 
every  part  of  the  country  stories  are  current  con- 
cerning the  Gobaun  Saor  and  his  son.  They  generally 
relate  the  stratagem  by  which  the  elder  procured  a 
wise  wife  for  the  simple-minded  young  man.  Some 
of  these  tales  are  finely  told  in  a  book  composed  by 
a  real  Shanachie — Miss  Ella  Young's  "  Celtic  Wonder 
Tales."  "  Do  you  know  how  the  Gobaun  Saor  got  a 
wife  for  his  son  ?  "  said  I  to  a  story-teller.  "  I  do," 
said  he.  Thereupon  he  told  me  an  anecdote  not  given 
in  Miss  Young's  book.  "  There  were  three  women 
amongst  the  neighbours  that  might  suit  the  son, 
and  the  old  Gobaun  brought  the  three  of  them  into 
his  house.  He  put  the  whole  of  his  treasure  into  a 
chest  and  he  let  the  women  open  it.  "  You'd  be  a 
long  time  spending  all  that's  there,"  said  the  first 
woman.     "  With  all  that  under   your  hand  you'd 


AN    IRISH    KOLK-TALE. 
(From  a  rough  sketch  by  Mr.  E.  A.  Morrow.     By  permission  of  the  artist.) 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  81 

have  an  easy  time,"  said  the  second  woman.  "  Well," 
said  the  third  woman,  "  as  much  as  there's  in  it,  if 
you  didn't  keep  adding  to  it,  it  would  soon  go."  The 
Gobaun  Saor  took  that  woman  by  the  hand  and 
brought  her  to  sit  down  by  the  fire,  and  it  was  to 
her  that  he  married  his  son. 

In  Longford  the  stories  told  are  mainly  humorous 
and    satirical,    but    in    Cavan — the    next    county — 
stories  used  to  be  current  that  had  a  gleam  of  strange- 
ness in  them.     One  that  I  remember  is  illustrated 
for  me  by  the  figure  of  a  woman  at  a  quern.     In 
ancient  Ireland  it  was  the  bondswoman's  duty  to 
grind    corn    with    the    quern- stone.     A    quern- stone 
suggests  remote  times,  but  in  some  parts  of  Ireland 
this  primitive  mill  has  come  down  to  recent  times, 
I  have  never  seen  anyone  working  a  quern,  but  I 
have  seen  a  quern-stone  in  the  County  Cavan.     It 
was  a  woman  in  Cavan  who  told  me  this  story,  and  she 
related  it  as  having  happened  in  her  own  family. 
The  house  she  lived  in  was  the  scene  of  the  story. 
The  people  of  the  house  used  to  find  that  the  corn 
left  in  the  haggard  was  ground  for  them  overnight. 
At  first,  I  think,  only  a  little  corn  was  ground,  for  the 
work  was  done  while  there  was  light.     Then  they 
used  to  leave  a  candle  lighted  in  the  haggard,  and  a 
great  deal  of  corn  was  ground.     They  never  caught 
sight  of  the  person  who  used  to  work  the  quern. 
The  people  of  the  house  agreed  to  watch,  and  they 
made  a  window  that  looked  into  the  haggard.     One 
night  they  saw  the  person  who  ground  the   corn. 
There  was  a  strange  woman  turning  the  quern-stone. 
She    was    bare    naked.     When    daylight    came    the 
woman  went  away. 

F 


82  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

The  people  of  the  house  were  anxious  to  do  some- 
thing for  the  woman.  The  young  man  went  to  the 
town  and  bought  a  silk  dress.  They  laid  the  silks 
beside  the  quern.  They  watched  through  the  window 
again.  The  woman  came  in  and  sat  down  by  the 
quern.  Then  she  saw  the  silk  dress  and  she  put  it 
on  her.  She  sat  at  the  quern  again  and  ground  corn 
for  a  while.  She  looked  down  at  herself.  Said  she, 
"  Silk  to  the  elbows  ;  and  I  grinding  at  the  quern." 
She  stood  up  then  and  went  out ;  she  was  never  seen 
again. 

The  woman  who  told  me  that  story  used  to  say 
that  when  the  hens  murmured  on  the  roost  they  were 
telling  each  other  where  the  Danes  hid  their  treasures 
after  their  defeat  at  Clontarf .  In  that  part  of  Ireland 
a  good  deal  of  folk-lore  centres  round  the  Danes 
and  their  treasures.  It  was  the  Danes,  they  say, 
who  had  the  secret  of  the  Heather  Ale.  Stevenson 
has  made  a  ballad  about  the  Heather  Ale,  giving  the 
secret  to  the  Picts,  I  think,  and  in  his  truly  Gaelic 
book,  "  The  Lost  Pibroch,"  Neil  Munro  has  a  fine 
story  on  the  same  theme.  In  the  Scots  story  the 
secret  is  held  by  a  single  Gaelic  clan.  The  "  Danes  " 
of  the  Cavan  story-teller  are  connected  with  the 
Scandinavian  invaders  only  by  a  piece  of  pseudo- 
history.  In  English-speaking  districts  of  Ireland, 
"  Danes,"  I  think,  equates  "  De  Danaan,"  the  gods 
or  culture  people  of  the  Irish  Celts.  It  has  this 
significance  only  in  places  where  the  Irish  name  for 
the  Scandinavian  people  ("  Lochlannach  ")  has  been 
forgotten.  If  I  am  right,  the  woman's  reference  to 
the  fowls  would  be  the  last  words  of  an  old  Celtic 
tradition. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  83 

My  mind  is  carried  on  to  another  story  I  heard 
in  the  same  house  when  I  was  a  child.  Although 
the  story  has  been  published,  I  would  like  to  evoke 
an  atmosphere  by  setting  it  here.  I  will  give  the 
story  in  the  words  of  Lady  Wilde ; — 

THE  HORNED  WITCHES 

A  ricli  woman  sat  up  late  one  night  carding  and  preparing 
wool,  while  all  the  family  and  servants  were  asleep.  Suddenly 
a  knock  was  given  at  the  door,  and  a  voice  called  :  "  Open  ! 
Open  !  " 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  said  the  woman  of  the  house. 

"  I  am  the  Witch  of  the  One  Horn,"  was  answered. 

The  mistress,  supposing  that  one  of  her  neighbours  had  called 
and  required  assistance,  opened  the  door,  and  a  woman  entered, 
having  in  her  hand  a  pair  of  wool  carders,  and  bearing  a  horn  on 
her  forehead,  as  if  growing  there.  She  sat  down  by  the  fire  in 
silence,  and  began  to  card  the  wool  with  violent  haste.  Sud- 
denly she  paused  and  said  aloud  :  "  WTiere  are  the  women  ? 
They  delay  too  long." 

Then  a  second  knock  came  to  the  door,  and  a  voice  called  as 
before:   "Open!   Open!" 

The  mistress  felt  herself  constrained  to  rise  and  open  to  the 
call,  and  immediately  a  second  witch  entered,  having  two  horns 
on  her  forehead,  and  in  her  hand  a  wheel  for  spinning  the  wool. 

"  Give  me  place,"  she  said,  "  I  am  the  Witch  of  the  Two 
Horns  "  ;  and  she  began  to  spin  as  quick  as  lightning.    ' 

And  so  the  knocks  went  on,  and  the  call  was  heard,  and  the 
witches  entered,  until  at  last  twelve  women  sat  round  the  fire — 
the  first  with  one  horn,  the  last  with  twelve  horns.  And  they 
carded  the  thread,  and  turned  their  spinning  wheels,  and  wound 
and  wove,  all  singing  together  an  ancient  rhyme,  but  no  word 
did  they  speak  to  the  mistress  of  the  house.  Strange  to  hear 
and  frightful  to  look  upon  were  these  twelve  women,  with  their 
horns  and  their  wheels ;  and  the  mistress  felt  near  to  death, 
and  she  tried  to  rise  that  she  might  call  for  help ;  but  she  could 
not  move,  nor  could  she  utter  a  word  or  a  cry,  for  the  spell  of  the 
witches  was  upon  her. 


84  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Then  one  of  them  called  to  her  in  Irish,  and  said  : 

"  Rise,  woman,  and  make  us  a  cake." 

Then  the  mistress  searched  for  a  vessel  to  bring  water  from 
the  well  that  she  might  mix  the  meal  and  make  the  cake,  but  she 
could  find  none.     And  they  said  to  her  : 

"  Take  a  sieve  and  bring  water  in  it." 

And  she  took  the  sieve  and  went  to  the  weU  ;  but  the  water 
poured  from  it,  and  she  could  fetch  none  for  the  cake,  and  she 
sat  down  by  the  well  and  wept.  Then  a  voice  came  by  her  and 
said : 

"  Take  the  yellow  clay  and  moss  and  bind  them  together,  and 
plaster  the  sieve  so  that  it  will  hold." 

This  she  did,  and  the  sieve  held  water  for  the  cake.  And 
the  voice  said  again  : 

"  Return,  and  when  thou  comest  to  the  north  angle  of  the 
house,  cry  aloud  three  times  and  say,  '  The  Momitain  of  the 
Fenian  Women  and  the  sky  over  it  is  all  on  fire.'  " 

And  she  did  so. 

When  the  witches  inside  heard  the  call,  a  great  terrible  cry 
broke  from  their  lips,  and  they  rushed  forth  with  wild  lamenta- 
tions and  shrieks,  and  fled  away  to  Slieve-namon,  where  was 
their  chief  abode.  But  the  Spirit  of  the  Well  bade  the  mistress 
of  the  house  to  enter  and  prepare  her  home  against  the  enchant- 
ments of  the  witches  if  they  returned  again. 

And  first,  to  break  their  spells,  she  sprinkled  the  water  in  which 
she  had  washed  her  child's  feet  (the  feet-water)  outside  the  door 
on  the  threshold  ;  secondly,  she  took  the  cake  which  the  witches 
had  made  in  her  absence,  of  meal  mixed  with  the  blood  drawn 
from  the  sleeping  family.  And  she  broke  the  cake  in  bits,  and 
placed  a  bit  in  the  mouth  of  each  sleeper,  and  they  were  restored  ; 
and  she  took  the  cloth  they  had  woven  and  placed  it  half  in  and 
half  out  of  the  chest  with  the  padlock  ;  and  lastly,  she  secured 
the  door  with  a  great  cross-beam  fastened  in  the  jambs,  so  that 
they  could  not  enter.     And  having  done  these  things  she  waited. 

Not  long  were  the  witches  in  coming  back,  and  they  raged 
and  called  for  vengeance. 

"  Open  !    Open  !  "  they  screamed.     "  Open,  feet-water  !  " 

"  I  cannot,"  said  the  feet-water,  "  I  am  scattered  on  the 
ground,  and  my  path  is  down  to  the  Lough." 

"  Open,  open,  wood  and  tree  and  beam !  "  they  cried  to  the  door. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  85 

"  I  cannot,"  said  the  door ;  "  for  the  beam  is  fixed  in  the 
jambs,  and  I  have  no  power  to  move." 

"  Open,  open,  cake  that  we  have  made  and  mingled  with 
blood,"  they  cried  again. 

"  I  caimot,"  said  the  cake,  "  for  I  am  broken  and  bruised, 
and  my  blood  is  on  the  lips  of  the  sleeping  children." 

Then  the  witches  rushed  through  the  air  with  great  cries,  and 
fled  back  to  Slieve-namon,  uttering  strange  curses  on  the  Spirit 
of  the  Well,  who  had  wished  their  ruin  ;  but  the  woman  and  the 
house  were  left  in  peace,  and  a  mantle  dropped  by  one  of  the 
witches  in  her  flight  was  kept  hung  up  by  the  mistress  as  a  sign 
of  the  night's  awful  contest ;  and  this  mantle  was  in  possession 
of  the  same  family  from  generation  to  generation  for  five  hundred 
years  after. 

The  people  of  the  Midlands  have  a  vigorous  and 
imaginative  speech.  "  Gold,"  says  a  man  to  whom 
I  have  been  listening,  "  doesn't  all  the  world  want 
it  ? — the  man  digging  in  the  fields,  the  priest  going 
up  to  Mass,  the  fool  upon  the  road,  the  child  upon 
the  knee  !  If  you  hold  it  up  before  it,  won't  the  child 
turn  to  the  gold  ?  "  They  have  been  talking  about 
children  who  have  been  left  orphans.  "  Sorra  a  bit  so- 
and-so  would  care  if  they  went  the  way  of  the  wild 
birds."  "  Michael  was  the  soundest  child  that  ever 
blessed  his  face.  And  he  wouldn't  be  put  out 
(embarrassed  or  perplexed)  if  he  saw  you  coming 
down  the  road  with  horns  on  you.  He  never  let 
the  red  roar  out  him."  "  Some  children,"  says 
another,  "  would  come  to  you  on  a  silk  thread,  and 
with  others  the  chain  of  a  ship  wouldn't  pull  them." 
The  talk  flows  on  in  humour  and  satire,  with  proverbs 
and  bits  of  poetry,  and  always  with  vivid  illustra- 
tion. "  Did  you  know  such  a  person  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  Do  I  know  him,  do  I  know  him  ?  Do  I  know 
me  ouF   shirt.      Aye,    I  know    him    as    well    as    I 


86  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

know  bread."  The  woman  gave  a  description  that 
exactly  fitted  the  impetuous  person  we  referred  to. 
"  Murty  came  in  with  a  windy  hat  on  him,  and  threw 
goold  down  on  the  counter.  '  Murty- Windy-hat,' 
she  called  him,  and  the  name  gives  the  atmosphere 
that  goes  with  the  man.  A  slow  and  caution  char- 
acter she  called  '  Martin-steal-upon-larks.'  The 
person  they  spoke  about  '  Murty,'  has  fine  speech. 
He  and  his  wife  are  a  quarrelling  couple.  The  other 
day  I  went  into  their  house  and  found  a  silence 
between  the  pair,  and  an  atmosphere  that  was  still 
tense.  '  What's  the  matter  with  you,  Norah,'  said 
I  to  the  woman,  '  There's  an  oul'  divil  eating  the 
flesh  off  me,'  she  said,  using  the  phrase  like  a  single 
line  in  tragic  drama.  The  man  spoke  to  me  outside. 
'  She  sticks  her  eyes  into  me  when  I  come  in,  and  the 
sort  of  a  temper  I  have,  the  brain  does  be  leppin 
off  me.'  He  made  an  apology  in  a  speech  that  was 
poetry  in  everything  except  form.  "  I'm  running 
the  four  winds  of  the  world,  striving  to  get  them 
bread.  I  would  not  know  why  the  people  were 
dressed  nor  when  the  holidays  came,  I  would  be 
that  bent  with  the  hardship.'  Once,  while  I  was 
taking  down  a  song,  Murty  spoke  to  me  about  the 
virtues  of  a  certain  well.  I  wrote  down  liis  phrase. 
Afterwards  I  thought  this  was  the  expression  he  had 
used,  '  The  water  of  that  well  .  .  .  when  the  sun 
is  on  the  stones  the  coldness  of  it  would  shake  the 
teeth  in  your  head.'  But  Murty  had  a  better  sense 
of  the  balance  of  a  sentence.  He  had  said,  '  The 
water  of  that  well  .  .  .  when  the  sun  would  be 
splitting  the  flags,  the  coldness  of  it  would  shiver  the 
teeth  in  your  head.'  " 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  87 

Educated  people  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  an 
Irish  peasant,  when  speaking,  has  in  his  mind  a  com- 
pelling sense  of  style.  I  believe  that  it  is  so.  A  man 
said,  "  he  was  offered  gallons  of  gold  in  Cavan  gaol 
to  betray  the  country."  He  used  "  gallons  "  with 
"  gold  "  for  the  alliteration.  Another  man  said,  "  I 
could  have  made  monuments  with  money,  if  I  stayed 
in  America."     "  He  is  drowned  in  debt." 

It  is  said  that  the  EngHsh  peasant  has  a  vocabulary 
of  from  300  to  500  words.  Doctor  Pedersen  took 
down  2500  words  of  the  vocabulary  of  the  Irish 
speakers  of  the  Arran  Islands.  Doctor  Douglas  Hyde 
wrote  down  a  vocabulary  of  3000  words  from  people 
in  Roscommon  who  could  neither  read  nor  write,  and 
he  thinks  he  fell  short  by  1000  words  of  the  vocabu- 
lary in  actual  use.  He  suggests  that  in  Munster — 
especially  in  Kerry — the  average  vocabulary  in  use 
amongst  Irish  speakers  is  probably  between  5000 
and  6000  words.  Behind  this  abundant  vocabulary 
there  is  a  highly  developed  social  sense.  Now,  satire 
equally  with  agreeable  conversation  is  a  product  of 
the  highly  developed  social  sense,  and,  in  peasant 
Ireland,  satire  is  current,  and  has  noticeable  effect. 
"  Isn't  my  wife  a  well-discoursed  woman  ?  "  said  a 
young  farmer,  speaking  of  one  in  whom  the  literary 
and  social  feeling  had  run  to  seed.  His  father  made 
answer :  "  She  thinks  she  is  as  famed  for  her  conversa- 
tion as  Daniel  O'Connell,  but  there's  as  much  heed 
given  to  her  as  to  the  dog  barking  on  my  ditch  out- 
side." The  old  man  ate  a  meal  in  his  son's  house  one 
day,  and  afterwards  he  spoke  of  his  daughter-in-law's 
housekeeping.  "  God  made  meat,"  says  he,  "  and 
somebody  else  made  cooks."     Satire  is  the  product 


88  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

of  the  social  sense  thwarted  and  so  is  invective.  In 
an  organised  community  invective  is  rarely  permitted, 
and  the  thwarted  social  feeling  that  would  express 
itself  in  invective  is  passed  off  in  epigiam.  Epigram 
is  current,  but  with  the  highly  developed  social  sense, 
there  is  in  peasant  Ireland  primitive  force  and 
elemental  freedom,  and  consequently  one  gets  terribly 
charged  invective.  Two  men  had  a  quarrel  in  the 
town,  and  as  one  passed  the  other  spat  out.  I  heard 
the  first  man  say,  "  Dirty  Darby,  that  was  reared  at 
a  beggarwoman's  paunch ;  many's  the  time  my  mother 
filled  a  gallon  for  you."  Irish  writing  is  full  of  invec- 
tive. An  astonishing  sample  is  given  in  a  poem  which 
Doctor  Hyde  has  translated  in  "  The  Rehgious  Songs 
of  Connacht  " — "  Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn." 
The  man  who  packed  this  invective  into  tight  and 
varied  verse  was  a  real  poetic  artist.  He  intertwines 
the  names  of  his  three  enemies — Bruadar,  Smith  and 
Glinn — in  every  stanza,  and  using  every  name  that 
the  Gaels  had  given  the  Deity — The  Son,  The  King  of 
the  Angels,  The  King  of  Brightness,  The  Son  of  the 
Virgin — he  puts  them  under  the  ban  of  God. 

BRUADAR  AND  SMITH  AND  GLINN 
A  Curse 
Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn, 

Amen,  dear  God,  I  pray, 
May  they  lie  low  in  waves  of  woe. 
And  tortures  slow  each  day. 


Amen'! 


Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn, 
Helpless  and  cold,  I  pray, 

Amen  !   I  pray,  0  King, 
To  see  them  pine  away. 

Amen ! 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  89 

Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn, 

May  flails  of  sorrow  flay  ! 
Cause  for  lamenting,  snares  and  cares, 

Be  theirs  by  night  and  day  ! 

Amen ! 

Blindness  come  down  on  Smith, 

Palsy  on  Bruadar  come, 
Amen,  0  King  of  Brightness  !  Smite 

Glinn  in  his  members  numb. 

Amen ! 

Smith  in  the  pangs  of  pain, 

Stumbling  on  Bruadar's  path, 
King  of  the  Elements,  Oh,  Amen  ! 

Let  loose  on  Glinn  Thy  Wrath. 

Amen  ! 

For  Bruadar  gape  the  grave, 

Up-shovel  for  Smith  the  mould. 
Amen,  0  King  of  the  Sunday  !     Leave 

Glinn  in  the  devil's  hold. 

Amen ! 

Terrors  on  Bruadar  rain. 

And  pain  upon  pain  on  Glinn, 
Amen,  0  King  of  the  Stars  !     And  Smith 

May  the  devil  be  linking  him. 

Amen  ! 

Glinn  in  a  shaking  ague. 

Cancer  on  Bruadar's  tongue, 
Amen,  0  King  of  the  Heavens  !   and  Smith 

For  ever  stricken  dumb. 

Amen  ! 

Thirst  but  no  drink  for  Glinn, 

Smith  in  a  cloud  of  grief. 
Amen  !   0  King  of  the  Saints  ;   and  rout 

Bruadar  without  relief. 

Amen  ! 


90  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Smith  without  child  or  heir, 

And  Bruadar  bare  of  store, 
Amen,  0  King  of  the  Friday  !   Tear 

From  Glinn  his  black  heart's  core. 

Amen. 

Bruadar  with  nerveless  limbs. 

Hemp  strangling  Glinn's  last  breath, 

Amen,  0  King  of  the  World's  Light ! 
And  Smith  in  grips  with  death. 

Amen ! 

Glinn  stiffening  for  the  tomb. 

Smith  wasting  to  decay, 
Amen,  0  King  of  the  Thunder's  Gloom, 

And  Bruadar  sick  alway. 

Amen  ! 

Smith  like  a  sieve  of  holes, 
Bruadar  with  throat  decay, 

Amen,  0  King  of  the  Orders  !     Glinn 
A  buck-show  every  day. 

Amen  ! 

Hell-hounds  to  hunt  for  Smith, 

Glinn  led  to  hang  on  high, 
Amen,  0  King  of  the  Judgment  Day  ! 

And  Bruadar  rotting  by. 

Amen  ! 

Curses  on  Glinn,  I  cry, 

My  curse  on  Bruadar  be. 
Amen,  0  King  of  the  Heaven's  high  I 

Let  Smith  in  bondage  be. 

Amen  ! 

Showers  of  want  and  blame, 
Reproach,  and  shame  of  face, 

Smite  them  all  three,  and  smite  again, 
Amen,  0  King  of  Grace  ! 

Amen  I 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  91 

Melt,  may  the  three  away, 

Bruadar  and  Smith  and  Glinn, 
Fall  in  a  swift  and  sure  decay 

And  lose,  but  never  win. 

Amen ! 

May  pangs  pass  through  thee.  Smith, 

(Let  the  wind  not  take  my  prayer). 
May  I  see  before  the  year  is  out 

Thy  heart's  blood  flowing  there. 

Amen ! 

Leave  Smith  no  place  nor  land, 

Let  Bruadar  wander  wide. 
May  the  Devil  stand  at  Glinn's  right  hand. 

And  Glinn  to  him  be  tied. 

Amen  ! 

All  ill  from  every  airt 

Come  down  upon  the  three 
And  blast  them  ere  the  year  be  out 

In  rout  and  misery. 

Amen  ! 

Glinn  let  misfortune  bruise, 

Bruadar  lose  blood  and  brains. 
Amen,  0  Jesus  !   hear  my  voice. 

Let  Smith  be  bent  in  chains. 

Amen  ! 

I  accuse  both  Glinn  and  Bruadar, 

And  Smith  I  accuse  to  God, 
May  a  breach  and  a  gap  be  upon  the  three, 

And  the  Lord's  avenging  rod. 

Amen  ! 

Each  one  of  the  wicked  three 

Who  raised  against  me  their  hand. 
May  fire  from  heaven  come  down  and  slay 

This  day  their  perjured  band. 

Amen  ! 


92  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

May  none  of  their  race  survive, 
May  God  destroy  them  all, 

Each  curse  of  the  psalms  in  the  holy  books 
Of  the  prophets  upon  them  fall. 

Amen  ! 

Blight  skull,  and  ear,  and  skin, 
And  hearing,  and  voice,  and  sight, 

Amen  !  before  the  year  be  out 
Blight,  Son  of  the  Virgin,  blight. 

Amen  ! 

May  my  curses  hot  and  red. 
And  all  I  have  said  this  day. 

Strike  the  Black  Peeler  too. 
Amen,  dear  God,  I  pray  ! 

Amen ! 


Besides  the  supreme  piece  of  invective,  there  is  only 
one  thing  fit  to  be  placed.  It  is  also  given  in  "  The 
Religious  Songs  of  Connacht."  A  poet  cries  out : 
"  There  are  three  watching  for  my  death — the  Devil, 
the  Children,  and  the  Worms; — the  Worms  that 
would  rather  have  my  body  than  my  soul  and  my 
wealth;  the  Children  that  would  rather  have  my 
wealth  than  my  soul  should  be  at  one  with  my  body ; 
the  Devil  that  has  no  desire  for  the  wealth  of  the 
world,  nor  for  my  body,  only  for  my  soul.  Christ 
that  was  crucified  upon  the  tree,  let  the  Worms,  the 
Devil,  and  the  Children  be  hanged  by  a  gad." 

At  the  root  of  Irish  social  hfe  there  is  the  will  and 
the  power  to  satirize.  That  hfe  has  two  aspects ;  one 
shows  a  world  of  kindly  friendships  wherein  the 
binding  power  of  blood  is  strongly  recognised — a 
community  where  the  social  sense  has  been  cultivated 
and  where  social  intercourse  is  a  necessity.    And  the 


THE   TINKERS   CURSE. 
(From  a  water-colour  drawing  by  Jack  B.  Yeats,  in  possession  of  Mr.  George  W.  Russell. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  93 

other  aspect  shows  never  ending  quarrels  between 
families  oi  the  same  blood,  constant  and  vexatious 
htigation,  outbursts  of  satire  and  invective.  Both 
aspects  of  Irish  life  obtain  fine  expression  in  Irish 
literature.  We  have  vivid  praises  of  men  and  women, 
charming  appreciations  of  kindly  townlands  and 
villages,  and  above  all,  deeply  felt  and  personal 
lamentations  for  the  dead.  Beside  this,  we  have 
humorous  satire,  passionate  and  dehberate  invective, 
potent  and  elaborate  curses.  The  satirical  part  of 
the  Irish  mind  is  very  well  represented  in  recent 
Irish  writing.  That  essay  in  personalities  which  Mr 
George  Moore  has  just  published, "  Hail  and  Farewell," 
is  distinctive  of  the  Irish  spirit,  and  the  Irish  invective 
is  continued  in  Synge's  "  Shadow  of  the  Glen,"  "  The 
Well  of  the  Saints,"  "  The  Playboy  of  the  Western 
World."  The  speech  of  the  Irish  peasant  is  fine 
material  for  the  dramatist,  and  the  Irish  dramatists 
have  made  use  of  it.  Synge's  dialogue  reproduces 
the  energy  and  the  extravagance  of  the  people's 
speech — "  It's  that  you'd  be  saying  surely  if  you  had 
seen  him  and  he  after  drinking  for  weeks,  rising  up  in 
the  red  dawn — or  before  it  maybe,  and  going  out 
into  the  yard  as  naked  as  an  ash-tree  in  the  moon  of 
May  and  shying  clods  against  the  visage  of  the  stars 
till  he'd  put  the  fear  of  death  into  the  honavs  and  the 
screeching  sows."  ^ 

I  know  scores  of  peasants  who  could  speak  in  this 
fashion.  It  is  true  that  Synge's  dialogue  is  a  splendid 
convention ;  all  the  characters  speak  to  the  same 
rhythm  and  their  speech  is  made  up  of  words  and 
phrases  from  different  parts  of  the  country  with  un- 

1  "  Playboy  of  the  Western  World." 


94  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

authorized  Gaelic  idioms.  Nevertheless  I  feel  as 
much  reality  in  Synge's  as  in  the  speech  of  that 
master  of  Irish  life  and  manners, — Carle  ton.  Curi- 
ously enough,  in  a  book,  not  written  by  an  Irishman 
— in  Borrow's  "  Lavengro  " — I  find  a  passage  that  is 
true  to  the  dignity  that  is  always  in  the  heartfelt 
speech  of  the  Irish  people.  "  An  old  woman,  at 
least  eighty,  was  seated  on  a  stone,  cowering  over  a 
few  sticks  burning  feebly  on  what  had  once  been  a 
right  noble  and  cheerful  hearth  ;  her  side-glance  was 
towards  the  door  as  I  entered,  for  she  had  heard  my 
footsteps,  I  stood  still  and  her  haggard  glance  rested 
upon  my  face.  '  Is  this  your  house.  Mother  ?  '  I 
demanded  in  the  language  which  I  thought  she  could 
best  understand.  '  Yes,  my  own  house,  my  own 
house ;  the  house  of  the  broken-hearted  .  .  .  my 
own  house,  the  beggar's  house,  the  accursed  house  of 
Cromwell.' " 

The  Anglo-Irish  idiom  is  naturally  formed  and 
logically  constructed ;  every  deviation  from  the 
standard  English  tongue  has  its  reason  and  its  ex- 
planation. Those  interested  in  the  philological  side 
should  read  the  two  scholarly  articles  which  Miss 
Hayden  and  Professor  Hartog  contributed  to  the 
Fortnightly  Review  in  April  and  May,  1909,  also  Dr 
Joyce's  racy  book,  "  English  as  we  speak  it  m 
Ireland."  Many  peculiarities  in  Irish  phrase  are 
survivals  of  GaeHc  locution.  "  I  saw  him  and  he 
going  the  road,"  is  an  instance.  The  use  of  "  and  " 
in  this  way  is  a  survival  of  Old  Irish.  "  I  am  after 
writing  a  letter,"  does  not  mean  that  the  speaker  is 
in  train  to  write  a  letter,  it  means  that  he  has 
recently  written   it.      Sir   John    Rhys,  not   finding 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  95 

this  idiom  in  any  other  Indo-European  language  is 
incUned  to  beheve  that  it  came  into  Irish  as  a  hteral 
translation  from  some  pre-Arryan  tongue.  There  is 
another  interesting  tense  in  Anglo-Irish.  In  reply  to 
the  query,  "  Does  it  rain  here  ?  "  the  native  says, 
"  It  bees  raining  "  or  "  It  does  be  raining."  He  is 
making  an  attempt  to  reach  an  exactitude  that  is 
possible  in  Gaehc.  As  the  student  of  O'Growny 
knows  there  are  three  different  ways  of  saying  in  Irish 
"  George  is  a  ruler ; "  the  use  of  the  first  form  would 
imply  that  George  is  identical  with  a  ruler,  the  use  of 
the  second,  that  George  had  become  a  ruler,  while  the 
use  of  the  third  form  would  imply  that  George  rules 
intermittently.  The  verb  in  the  third  form  corre- 
sponds with  the  EngUsh  "  be,"  and  so  "  bees  "  and 
"  does  be  "  are  used  in  Anglo-Irish  as  a  frequentitive 
tense ;  thus :  "  he  bees  lame  in  the  winter  "  or  "  he 
does  be  a  cripple  in  the  winter."  In  pronunciation 
many  peculiarities  are  survivals,  not  vulgarisms.  We 
still  give  the  diphthong  "  ea  "  the  value  that  Shake- 
speare gave  it. 

"  And  for  a  woman  were  thou  first  created. 
Till  Nature  as  she  wrought  thee,  fell  a-doting 
And  by  addition  me  of  thee  defeated." 

Our  pronunciation  of  English  is  derived  from  the 
EHzabethan  pronunciation.  Certain  English  writers 
unaware  of  the  mutations  of  their  own  language 
thought  that  our  treatment  of  "  ea  "  was  an  ignorant 
departure  from  standard  pronunciation,  and,  by  a 
false  analogy  they  have  made  us  say  "  Praste,"  for 
"Priest,"  "belave,"  for  "beheve"  "  indade  "  for 
"  indeed."     But,  the  old  English  sounds  of  "  ie  "  and 


96  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  ee  "  have  not  changed  and  our  pronunciation  of 
these  diphthongs  is  in  perfect  agreement  with  standard 
pronunciation. 

The  Gael  has  always  been  marked  for  his  abundant 
and  vivid  speech  and  for  his  conspicuous  martial 
quahties.  "  Born  soldiers  of  fortune,"  says  the 
German  historian.  "  Very  great  s corners  of  death," 
say  the  Elizabethan  observers.  Because  of  his 
conspicuous  courage  and  his  impassioned  speech  the 
Irishman  has  been  credited  with  a  quality  that  is 
supposed  to  go  with  these — the  lover's  passion  and  the 
lover's  devotion.  But  love,  as  the  English  and  the 
Continental  writers  think  of  it  has  very  httle  place 
in  Irish  life.  Amongst  the  peasantry  lovemaking  is 
more  often  a  subject  for  satire  than  for  romance,  and 
our  cousins — the  Gaels  of  Scotland  say  of  us  "  Comh 
neamhghradhmhar  le  Eireannach,"  "  as  loveless  as  an 
Irishman." 


CHAPTER  VII 

A   MARRIAGE 

Michael  Cunliffe  had  for  living  children  Martin, 
John  and  JuUa,  Matt,  Rose,  Francis,  and  Ellen. 
]\Iartin  and  Julia  were  in  America ;  Matt  was  in  a 
shop  in  Cahirmona,  and  Rose  was  married  in  the 
district.  Three  were  at  home,  John,  Francis  and 
Ellen ;  John  was  the  eldest  of  these  and  the  farm 
would  come  to  him,  and  Francis  was  a  young  fellow 
working  on  land  until  he  could  make  some  settlement 
for  himself.  Ellen  had  just  passed  the  age  when  she 
was  referred  to  as  "  the  gearcallach  "  and  spoken  to 
as  "  Sissy  "  by  the  people  who  came  into  the  house. 
She  had  the  look  which  a  Connachtman  saw  in  the 
women  of  the  Midlands,  Uisge  faoi  thalamh,  "  Water 
under  the  ground."  This  young  girl  with  her  copper- 
coloured  hair  and  shrewd  eyes  could  hold  her  own  in 
a  game  of  intrigue. 

The  Cunliffe  house  was  illuminated ;  a  candle  was 
lighted  in  the  kitchen  window,  a  lamp  in  the  upper 
bedroom,  and  another  candle  in  the  lower  bedroom. 
This  illumination  was  the  sign  of  some  excitement  in 
the  house.  A  marriage  was  being  arranged  for  John, 
and  the  party  on  the  other  side  were  to  visit  Cunliffe's 
this  evening. 

Although  lights  were  in  the  windows  it  was  still 
the  early   dusk  of  an  autumn  day.     Francis  had 

r,  97 


/ 
98  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

brought  up  the  horse.  The  cattle  were  coming  up 
the  long  bohereen  that  led  from  the  road.  Michael 
Cunliffe  walked  behind  his  cattle.  On  his  left  hand 
were  some  acres  of  tumbled  bog  and  waste  ground 
where  rushes  stood  beside  pools  of  water.  The  groimd 
on  his  right  hand  showed  the  black  soil  of  the  bog. 
The  potatoes  were  being  dug,  and  on  the  ridge  were 
spectral  potato-stalks.  Back  of  the  house  there  was 
a  tillage  field,  a  pasture  field  and  a  meadow  with  after- 
grass. Forty  years  before  CunHffe  had  come  into 
the  place  from  a  neighbouring  county.  It  was  after 
the  famine,  land  was  cheap,  and  he  got  about  thirty 
acres  of  land,  good  and  bad,  at  a  low  rent.  He  had 
built  the  house  himself ;  he  had  dug  the  clay  out  of 
the  pit,  mixed  it  and  raised  his  walls  foot  by  foot. 
Friends  had  helped  him  to  lay  the  long  beams  that  held 
the  roof.  He  had  woven  branches  through  the  beams 
and  had  his  roof  thatched  with  the  straw  of  his  crop. 
Michael  Cunliffe  had  been  Hving  with  kin  of  his,  the 
Markeys,  and  when  the  house  was  built  he  had 
married  a  woman  who  was  a  far-out  member  of  the 
family.     Michael's  wife  was  no  longer  Hving. 

The  horse  was  stabled  at  the  end  of  the  byre. 
After  Francis  had  gone  into  the  house  his  father  re- 
mained with  the  cattle.  Mchael  would  praise  a 
woman  by  saying  that  she  was  kind  to  a  cow,  or  a 
young  man  by  saying  he  had  a  good  hand  on  a  horse. 
His  byre  was  a  second  household.  He  had  pride  in 
his  horse  and  cattle  and  he  had  comradeship  Avith 
them. 

He  was  stroking  down  the  horse  when  the  car  with 
the  visitors  turned  off  the  road  on  to  the  bohereen. 

The  Cunliffes  had  gone  far  to  make  an  alliance 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  99 

for  John.  Tliey  were  fairly  secure,  and  they  ex- 
pected a  good  dowry  with  the  woman  that  would 
come  into  their  house.  A  well-off  and  respected 
farmer  in  the  County  Leitrim,  John  Owens,  was 
on  the  look-out  for  a  good  match  for  Mary,  his 
daughter,  and  he  and  Michael  Cunliffe  had  come 
together  at  a  fair.  Subsequently  John  had  visited 
at  the  Owens'  house.  Negotiations  had  reached 
the  stage  when  the  other  party  might  look  over 
the  Cunliffes'  ways  and  means.  Mary  was  making 
the  visit  mth  her  people.  John  had  gone  to  meet 
John  Owens'  car.  He  had  been  given  a  place  beside 
the  father,  and  Mary  and  her  mother  sat  the  other 
side.  When  they  came  to  the  courtyard,  Michael 
came  out  of  the  byre  and  welcomed  them  to  the 
place.  Rose  had  come  to  assist  at  the  function,  and 
she  and  Ellen  brought  the  Owens'  women  into  the 
house.  John  and  Francis  looked  to  the  horse  and 
car,  and  the  elders  went  on  to  look  over  the  farm. 
John  Owens  had  observed  the  ground  between  the 
road  and  the  house.  They  went  into  the  byre  and 
then  they  looked  at  the  sow  that  had  her  second 
litter.  The  car  and  cart  w^ere  good  veliicles,  the 
stack  of  turf  showed  a  plentiful  supply,  and  the  hay 
was  well-saved.  The  pair  went  into  the  field  at  the 
back  of  the  house  and  looked  at  two  well-grown 
calves  that  were  on  the  stubble.  Then  they  went 
into  the  meadow  and  stopped  before  a  young  horse. 
"  He'll  be  worth  fifteen  pounds  at  the  Fair  of  Cahir- 
mona,"  said  John  Owens.  "  More,"  said  Michael 
Cunliffe.  "  Not  much  more."  "  Three  pounds 
more."  "  Ay,  I'd  give  that  for  him."  There 
were  a  few  sheep  on  the  meadow.     "  They  belong  to 


100  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

my  son,  Francis,"  said  Michael  Cunliffe.  "  He'll  be 
settling  for  himself  soon.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what's 
coming  to  the  boy.  There's  forty  pounds  in  the  bank 
for  him,  and  he  has  the  little  stock  that  you  see. 
Next  year  he  may  have  a  few  heifers.  There  was 
talk  of  him  marrying  a  young  woman  that  has  a 
farm  beyond  this.  But  I  hear  that  he  has  fallen 
into  fancy  with  a  girl  that's  back  from  America.  I 
beUeve  they'd  have  enough  between  them  to  take  a 
little  farm  and  stock  it." 

"  The  girls  that  come  back  from  America  are 
wasted  before  they  settle  down  here,"  said  John 
Owens. 

"  You're  right,"  said  Michael.  "  But  I'd  like  you 
to  know  that  whatever  happens,  Francis  won't  be 
taking  anything  off  the  farm." 

"  And  what  about  the  young  man  in  Cahirmona  ?  " 

"  He  has  something  by  him,  and  there  are  people 
who  wouldn't  be  afraid  to  trust  him  with  more. 
He'll  be  opening  a  place  of  his  own  in  a  Meath  town." 

"  I  like  your  way  of  doing,"  said  John  Owens, 
"and  I  Hke  the  look  of  the  place.  I'd  like  half  of 
Mary's  fortune  to  be  left  with  the  young  people." 

"  No,  John.     I  won't  listen  to  that  at  all." 

"  I  want  the  young  people  to  have  the  handUng 
of  some  money." 

"  Well,  there's  no  use  in  sa3ring  one  thing  and  mean- 
ing another.  I  must  have  the  grasp  of  everything 
in  the  place.  It  all  came  from  me  and  it  all  must 
stay  with  me  as  long  as  I'm  above  the  ground.  Ellen 
has  to  get  her  fortune  out  of  it,  and  everything  else 
that's  in  my  purse  and  place,  will  go  to  your  daughter 
and  my  son." 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  101 

"  How  much  do  you  think  I'm  thinking  of  giving 
with  Mary." 

"  A  hundred  pounds." 

"  I'm  not  altogether  as  well  off  as  that." 

"  I  won't  be  bargaining  with  you.  If  you  don't 
say  a  hundred  pounds,  John,  we  won't  talk  of  a 
marriage." 

"  Well,  I'll  say  a  hundred  pounds.  It's  more  than 
we  thought  of  when  we  were  young,  but  times  are 
changed,  and  changed  for  the  better,  thank  God. 
A  hundred  pounds.     Here's  my  hand  to  you." 

"  Saoighail  fada  agat.'^ 

Then  they  went  into  the  house.  John  and  Francis 
were  standing  before  the  fire  in  the  kitchen,  and 
Michael  Cunliffe  briefly  told  them  the  terms  of  the 
engagement.  He  was  satisfied.  Ellen  came  from  the 
upper  room  and  announced  that  supper  was  ready. 
Before  each  place  there  was  a  plate  of  roast  goose 
and  ham,  and  a  glass  of  whiskey  was  beside  each 
plate.  Mary  was  seated  with  her  hands  on  her  lap. 
She  looked  at  a  picture  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  that 
was  over  the  bed.  Under  it  was  a  withered  branch 
of  last  Palm  Sunday.  Some  affection  for  her  sur- 
roundings began  to  come  into  Mary's  mind.  John 
came  to  her  and  pressed  her  to  drink  a  glass  of 
whisky.  Her  voice  was  liigh-pitched  with  nervous- 
ness. "  As  true  as  God  is  over  me,"  she  said,  "  I'll 
drink  none."  "I'd  rather  have  the  girl  that  drank 
before  my  face  than  the  one  that  w^ould  go  behind 
the  door  and  do  it,"  said  Michael  Cunliffe.  "  Drink 
it,"  said  her  father.  "  Stand  up  with  John  Cunliffe 
and  drink  the  glass."  "  Drink  it,  Mary,  lamb," 
said  her  mother.     Her  face  was   red   with   blushes 


102  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

when  she  drank  the  glass.  Then  she  sat  still  and 
John  held  her  hand.  "  Long  life  to  ye  both,"  said 
Michael.  "  You  are  both  of  honest  people.  And 
may  they  be  honest,  them  you  leave  behind  you." 
Some  simplicity  in  Mary's  thought  and  speech  gave 
Ellen,  who  had  been  a  monitoress  in  the  school,  a 
touch  of  patronage  towards  her.  She  thought  of 
Mary  as  coming  from  a  remote  and  uncivilised  place, 
and  her  want  of  self-possession  seemed  part  of  her 
barbarism.  When  the  Owens  were  returning,  John 
Cunliffe  went  some  miles  with  them.  It  was  near 
morning  when  he  came  back,  and  he  and  his  father 
sat  talking  until  they  went  out  to  their  work.  Rose 
stayed  the  night,  and  the  two  talked  of  Ellen's  future. 
Two  weeks  after,  John  married,  and  Mary  Owens 
came  into  Michael  Cunliife's  house.  Francis  got 
married  in  the  spring.  When  the  elder  brother 
brings  in  a  wife,  the  young  girl  who  was  the  daughter 
becomes  the  step-daughter  of  the  house.  Cunliffe's 
house  no  longer  stood  for  a  single  interest — there  was 
Owen  and  Mary's  interest,  there  was  her  father's, 
and  there  was  Ellen's  own  interest.  The  younger 
girl  was  subject  to  Mary.  She  would  be  sent  out 
for  turf  when  she  wanted  to  read,  and  bid  milk  the 
cows  when  she  wanted  to  dress  for  the  evening. 
These  things  Ellen  had  done  before,  but  she  had  done 
them  in  the  interest  of  the  indivisible  Cunliffe  house- 
hold.    Now  her  duties  were  a  tribute  of  labour. 

II 

She  brought  in  the  turf  on  an  evening  and  sat  down 
by  the  fire.     Bridget  Rush  was  there,  and  there  was 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  103 

no  one  else  in  the  house.  Bridget  used  to  go  from 
house  to  house,  knitting  stockings  and  mending 
clothes.  She  was  everyone's  famihar.  "  I'm  thinking 
oi  getting  a  good  liusband  for  you,  Miss  Cunhffe," 
she  said.  "  Who  would  he  be,  Bridget  ?  "  said  Ellen. 
"  A  fine  yomig  man  that  has  just  come  back  from 
America."  "  Hugh  Daly,  is  it  ?  "  "  Indeed  it  is 
Hugh  Daly."  Ellen  had  considered  Hugh  Daly. 
His  American  clothes  set  him  off  well,  and  besides, 
he  was  a  well-built,  good-looking  fellow.  Hugh 
Daly  was  settHng  down  on  a  farm  his  father  had 
minded  not  over- well.  But  before  taking  root  he 
had  let  himself  out  in  two  or  three  drinking  bouts, 
and  when  in  these  he  had  not  been  behind  in  using 
the  strong  hand.  "  He'll  be  a  steady  man  when  he 
begins  to  put  his  little  place  into  trim,"  said  Bridget 
Rush.  "  They  say  it  is  a  poor  place,"  said  Ellen. 
"  Well,  if  a  woman  came  in  with  a  fair  fortune  they 
could  make  it  a  tidy  place  in  a  few  years."  "  Katie 
has  to  get  her  fortune  out  of  the  place,"  said  Ellen. 
"  I'm  not  asking  what  your  fortune  is,  daughter," 
said  Bridget  Rush,  "  but  your  father,  sure,  would  give 
a  fortune  with  you  that  would  let  Hugh  settle  with 
Katie,  and  give  ye  a  good  start." 

She  met  Hugh  Daly  in  a  house  where  there  was 
a  dance.  He  addressed  her  as  "  Miss  Cunhffe," 
and  asked  her  to  dance  with  him.  There  was  good- 
humoured  swinging  and  squeezing,  but  Ellen  Cunliffe 
had  a  prestige  that  kept  her  clear  of  these  famiUarities. 
The  girls  and  the  young  men  went  home  in  groups 
and  not  in  couples.  Hugh  Daly  walked  beside  Ellen 
and  two  or  three  other  girls.  In  a  week  Ellen  and 
Rose  knew  that  he  was  on  for  making  a  match. 


104  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Sometimes  when  Ellen  was  there  he  would  come 
into  Rose's  house,  and  when  she  was  going  home  he 
would  leave  Ellen  part  of  the  road.  On  a  market 
day  in  Cahirmona  he  entertained  them  in  a  room 
over  the  shop  where  Matt  was  an  assistant.  Hugh 
Daly  had  taken  a  sup  that  day,  and  on  his  way  back 
he  told  Rose  of  his  regard  for  Ellen.  It  was  agreed 
that  he  should  make  a  proposal  to  Michael  Canliffe 
that  week. 

He  did  not  tell  Rose  what  money  he  needed  with 
Ellen.  These  were  his  circumstances.  Hugh  Daly's 
sister  lived  on  the  farm,  and  she  would  have  to  get 
her  portion  out  of  it.  Moreover,  his  father  had  been 
a  drinking  man,  and  the  farm  was  badly  wasted. 
The  evening  that  he  went  to  her  father's  Ellen 
stayed  at  her  sister's  house.  Hugh  came  in  on  his 
way  back.  He  was  angry  at  the  offer  Michael  Cunliffe 
had  made  him.  "  Your  father  wants  to  make  Httle 
of  me,"  he  said.  "  He  only  offered  fifty  pounds. 
If  it  was  anyone  else  that  asked  for  you  he'd  have 
offered  eighty.  What  good  would  fifty  pounds  be 
to  us  ?  Katie  must  get  her  money,  and  there's 
hardly  any  stock  on  the  farm."  He  parted  from 
Ellen  not  on  the  best  of  terms. 

Ellen  cried  when  he  had  gone,  and  for  consolation 
Rose  gave  her  some  practical  advice.  She  went  back 
to  the  house.  Her  father  had  to  go  to  a  fair  early 
in  some  far-off  place,  and  he  was  asleep  in  the  settle 
in  the  kitchen.  John  and  Mary  were  in  the  room 
above.  She  put  out  the  light  and  sat  by  the  fire 
that  was  covered  over  with  ashes.  What  was  the 
good  of  Rose's  advice  ?  Hugh  Daly  would  marry 
another  girl,  and  her  father  would  make  a  match  for 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  105 

her.  If  it  were  with  a  man  in  a  distant  placefshe 
would  consent  to  marriage  readily  enough.  She 
might  go  to  America  in  spite  of  Julia's  protest.  Or 
she  might  ask  her  father  for  her  money  and  enter  a 
convent.  Yes,  that  is  what  she  would  do.  She  would 
become  a  nun  and  teach  in  a  convent  school. 

Then  she  heard  Mary  talking  in  the  room  above. 
"  Where  would  she  get  eighty  pounds  when  every- 
body gets  their  rightful  share  ?  My  father's  money 
wasn't  given  to  make  a  big  fortune  for  Ellen  Cunhffe." 
Mary  was  jealous  of  the  thought  that  Ellen  claimed 
a  dowry  almost  as  big  as  the  dowry  she  brought  into 
the  house.  "  Me  that  had  the  biggest  fortune  that 
ever  came  into  this  townland."  Ellen  heard  Mary 
say.  "  Deed  she  won't.  Never  will  Hugh  Daly 
bring  her  into  his  house,"  Mary  said  again. 

Ellen  swore  by  the  beam  of  her  father's  roof  that 
she  would  leave  that  house  triumphantly  and  marry 
Hugh  Daly.  Thirty  pounds  was  a  great  deal  of  money, 
but  she  remembered  Rose's  advice.  In  the  end  the 
Dalys  might  do  with  seventy  pounds.  Julia  might 
send  ten  pounds  from  America.  She  would  claim 
the  eggs  of  a  year  for  her  perquisite.  Yes,  and  if 
her  father  got  a  good  price  for  the  young  horse,  she 
would  put  something  to  her  dowry.  She  went  up 
to  her  room,  and  when  her  father  rose  she  came  down 
and  got  him  breakfast.  He  ate  by  candle-light. 
"  Hugh  Daly,"  said  her  father,  "  isn't  the  first  that 
spoke  about  you."  "  I  wouldn't  care  to  marry  any 
other  man,"  said  Ellen.  "  That's  the  talk  of  a  young 
girl."  "  I'm  in  earnest,  father,"  said  she.  When 
he  was  going  out  of  the  door  she  spoke  to  him  about 
the  eggs.    Her  father  was  agreeable,  but  she  and  he 


106  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

knew  that  the  granting  of  the  eggs  depended  upon 
Mary's  good-will. 

Mary  was  really  a  good-natured  woman.  She  did 
not  put  any  obstacles  in  the  way  of  Ellen  getting 
the  benefit  of  the  eggs.  Afterwards  she  got 
very  sympathetic,  and  she  asked  that  some  of  her 
money  be  put  to  Ellen's  dowry.  Ellen  had  now 
about  sixty-five  pounds,  and  she  let  Hugh  Daly  know 
of  the  rise  in  her  fortune.  That  year  in  America, 
Julia  worked  so  hard  that  her  hair  became  suddenly 
grey.  But  she  had  made  a  good  deal  of  money,  and 
w^as  able  to  send  ten  pounds  to  Ellen.  She  married 
Hugh  Daly  within  the  year,  bringing  to  his  house  a 
fortune  of  seventy-five  pounds. 

Ill 

Ellen  is  now  the  mother  of  seven  children,  and 
four  of  them  are  fine  boys.  She  lives  too  near  her 
brother's  for  perfect  accord  to  be  between  the  two 
families.  She  does  not  forget  that  she  came  into 
Hugh  Daly's  with  a  fortune  less  than  he  asked,  or 
that  the  portion  she  brought  was  made  up  mth  a 
contribution  from  the  share  going  to  Mary  and 
Owen.  She  has  the  mocking  tongue  that  often  breaks 
the  peace  between  the  two  houses.  At  school  her 
children  are  kept  in  competition  with  Mary's  children, 
who  are  rude  and  somewhat  dull.  Michael,  Mary's 
eldest  boy,  was  in  Ellen's  house  one  evening  when 
I  was  there.  He  had  given  a  foolish  answer  to  the 
priest,  who  had  spoken  to  the  children  on  the  road. 
Ellen  was  laughing  over  the  adventure,  but  she  had 
a  laugh  that  left  it  hard  to  say  whether  she  laughed 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  107 

with  the  boy  or  laughed  at  him.  Michael  knew 
enough  of  his  aunt  to  discover  the  mockery  in  her 
mind.  "  Do  you  ever  say  your  prayers,  Ellen," 
said  he.  "  I  do,  in  troth,"  said  Ellen.  "  I'll  tell  you, 
Michael,"  said  she,  "what  I  prayed  for  last  night. 
I  prayed  that  I  would  see  ten  cows,  a  horse  and 
a  car  before  this  house,  and  that  I  would  see  your 
place  with  only  an  ass  and  a  goat."  "  But,  Michael, 
a  chara,""  said  she,  "  I'm  only  talking.  We're  the 
one  blood,  and  what  could  I  wish  but  good  luck  to 
you."  She  was  sincere  in  both  attitudes.  And 
before  Michael  went  she  was  teasing  him  again. 
In  the  summer  before  Julia  was  back  from  America, 
and  there  was  a  party  for  her  at  her  father's  house, 
the  talk  turned  on  money  sent  home,  and  Mary  said 
a  hasty  word.  Instantly  Ellen  rose  up.  Her  self- 
control  and  her  power  of  deliberate  placing  of  word 
gave  her  the  triumph.  This  evening,  when  Michael 
was  about  to  go  home,  Ellen  said,  "  Sit  down,  Michael, 
and  let  us  talk  of  last  summer  when  your  Aunt  Juha 
was  at  home."  Her  formulas  reminded  me  of  the 
opening  of  that  splendid  tale,  "  The  Little  Brawl  of 
Allen."  "Well,  thanks  be  to  God,"  said  Finn, 
"  we're  all  at  peace.  It's  a  long  time  since  we  were 
at  peace  before.  Indeed,  we  weren't  at  peace,  GoU, 
since  the  day  I  killed  your  father." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE   PEASANT   PROPRIETOR 

One  evening  I  went  to  Brian  Mulcahy's,  a  small 
farmer's  house  in  the  Irish  Midlands.  Brian  and  his 
sons  were  still  from  home,  and  while  I  waited  for 
them  Mrs  Mulcahy  entertained  me.  It  was  summer, 
and  Mrs  Mulcahy  was  in  her  bare  feet.  She  was 
preparing  a  feed  for  the  pigs,  and  she  talked  to  me 
while  I  drank  buttermilk,  a  beverage  that  is  becoming 
rare  in  the  farmhouses  hereabouts. 

The  house  is  comfortable  and  well-kept,  though 
it  must  seem  harsh  and  bare  to  those  who  look  for 
space  and  beauty  in  houses.  There  are  four  rooms 
in  the  house,  and  we  sit  in  the  place  that  is  hall, 
kitchen,  and  living-room.  In  terms  of  stage  direc- 
tions the  entrance  is  at  back  right,  the  fireplace  takes 
up  nearly  the  whole  of  the  left  end  of  the  room. 
Like  a  huge  candle-extinguisher,  the  chimney  pro- 
jects over  the  fire  of  turf  that  is  on  the  floor.  A  crook 
hangs  down,  holding  the  pot  above  the  fire.  The 
big  dresser  is  filled  with  delf  and  tins,  the  settle-bed 
is  folded  to  make  a  bench  against  the  wall.  There 
are  room  doors  right  and  left,  and  a  ladder  going  up 
to  a  loft.  The  floor  is  of  clay  ;  the  roof  is  blackened 
and  the  walls  are  browned  with  smoke.  A  fiddle 
hangs  on  the  wall,  and  there  is  a  gun  across  the 
chimney. 

108 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  109 

For  two  generations  a  national  struggle  has  been 
made  on  behalf  of  homes  such  as  this.  What  has 
been  the  gain  ?  That  which  is  absolutely  essential 
to  peasantry  whose  whole  capital  is  in  their  holding 
— security  of  tenure — has  been  gained.  There  have 
been  reductions  in  rent  as  well,  but  these  reduc- 
tions have  been  met  by  an  increase  in  expenditure. 
Things  formerly  made  in  the  house  or  grown  on  the 
land  are  now  bought  in  the  shops. 

In  Ireland  an  economic  holding  is  reckoned  as 
fifty  acres  of  mixed  land.  On  such  a  holding  the 
farmer  and  his  family  can  live  with  some  comfort 
and  dignity,  provided  that  the  labour  is  supplied  by 
the  family.  Half  of  the  holdings  in  Ireland  are  only 
up  to  fifteen  acres.  The  standard  of  comfort  kept 
up  on  these  holdings  is  nothing  to  boast  of.  There 
are  many  farms  of  ten  and  twelve  acres  where  a 
decent  standard  is  maintained,  but  in  such  cases  the 
land  is  exceptionally  good,  or  the  family  is  very 
capable.  My  friends  the  Mulcahys  have  twelve 
acres.  Brian  is  a  good  farmer,  and  his  two  sons  are 
exceptional  for  the  reason  that  they  are  in  no  hurry 
to  get  away  from  the  land.  He  has  a  daughter  also 
in  the  house.  The  rest  of  the  children  are  in 
America. 

The  cattle  are  drawing  home,  and  I  go  out  to  the 
"  street,"  or  courtyard,  to  meet  Brian.  We  go 
into  the  byre  with  the  cows.  They  are  all  good 
milkers,  it  appears.  He  sends  his  milk  to  the  co- 
operative creamery,  but  he  keeps  Thursday's  milk 
in  addition  to  Saturday  night's  and  Sunday's,  so  that 
there  is  still  a  churning  in  Brian's  house  and  the  women 
folk  are  not  hkely  to  lose  the  art  of  butter-making. 


110  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Brian  Mulcahy  has  lived  his  hfe  of  sixty  years  in  this 
spot.  He  has  a  certain  poetry  when  he  speaks  of  natural 
things.  He  spoke  of  the  delight  of  the  summer  morning, 
and  he  referred  to  scent  that  is  lost  in  the  heat  of  the 
day,  the  smell  of  the  bushes  in  the  morning.  He  is 
of  the  genuine  peasant  stock.  He  is  careful,  and 
dislikes  waste. 

Tea  had  been  made  ready  in  the  room  above,  and 
Brian  and  myself  sat  down  with  the  two  boys.  The 
youngest  is  about  eighteen  and  the  other  is  twenty- 
six.  The  elder  boy  talks  about  the  news  given  in 
the  country  paper.  He  was  interested  in  the  passage 
of  the  new  Bill.  He  was  not  a  mere  agrarian ;  he 
was  a  Home  Ruler.  He  was  interested  in  agricul- 
tural organisation  abroad,  and  had  heard  of  the  con- 
ditions in  Denmark.  His  remarks  on  social  problems 
were  intelligent.  The  younger  boy  talked  about  his 
gun  and  the  sport  about  the  place.  The  father 
had  been  in  the  Land  League  struggle,  but  his  vision 
of  politics  was  hazy ;  he  had  the  mind  of  those  who 
made  Daniel  O'Connell  into  a  folk-hero.  He  talks 
of  the  change  that  is  coming  over  peasant  Ireland. 
In  liis  early  days  the  farmers  bought  scarcely  any- 
thing in  the  shops.  Now  they  lived  on  shop  goods — 
tea  and  white  bread.  In  his  day  they  made  bread 
out  of  the  wheat  they  had  grown,  they  killed  their 
own  bacon,  and  went  to  the  shop  for  salt  and  tobacco 
only.  Men  could  not  do  a  day's  work  on  the  food 
that  was  taken  now  :  tea  all  day  long,  shop  bread, 
American  bacon.  He  knew  men  who  could  carry  the 
plough  from  one  side  of  the  field  to  the  other.  When 
they  came  up  from  the  work  it  was  not  tea  they  took, 
but  buttermilk  with  meal  mixed  through  it. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  111 

When  we  went  down  Bridget,  Brian's  daughter, 
had  made  the  kitchen  as  tidy  as  a  sitting-room, 
and  for  a  while  we  sat  around  the  hearth.  Bridget 
is  a  capable  girl  who  regards  things  gravely.  She 
was  going  to  America  in  September.  I  asked  if  she 
was  sorry  to  leave  home,  and  she  said  no.  Her 
brothers  and  sisters  were  there,  she  was  going  amongst 
her  own,  and  would  enter  a  fuller  life.  Besides, 
"  New  York  is  full  of  Aughnalee  people."  The 
newspapers  on  the  settle  were  American,  and  the 
photographs  in  the  room  above  had  come  from 
America  also.  Ireland  is  a  country  partitioned 
between  Great  Britain  and  America. 

As  my  talk  showed  an  interest  in  reading,  Bridget 
brought  a  book  down  to  me.  It  had  been  published 
in  America,  and  was  a  collection  of  about  a  thousand 
Irish  songs.  In  the  collection  no  personality  was 
shown,  and  all  the  songs  had  been  left  anonymous. 
The  gather-up  of  folk-songs,  street  ballads,  culture 
poems,  poet's  corner  verse  had  an  extraordinary 
unity.  It  seemed  to  me  to  express  the  soul  of  Ireland 
more  completely  than  any  book  I  had  ever  seen. 
The  political  songs  were  defiant,  the  pathetic  songs 
were  resigned,  the  humorous  songs  exuberant ;  the 
play  of  wit  was  surely  unique  in  national 
poetry.  The  love  songs  had  charm  rather  than 
passion. 

Brian  accompanied  me  some  of  the  way  back, 
and  talked  to  me  of  Bridget's  departure.  The  elder 
boy  was  bringing  a  wife  into  the  house  soon,  and 
Bridget  would  not  stay.  She  would  get  a  good 
dowry,  but  she  had  no  wish  to  settle  here.  According 
to  the  peasant  custom,  the  dowry  brought  in  by  the 


112  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

brother's  wife  would  go  to  the  sister.  In  this  case 
the  money  would  help  the  younger  boy  to  get  a  farm 
near  the  place,  and  an  addition  would  come  from 
the  friends  in  America.  This  arrangement  is  char- 
acteristic of  peasant  sociology. 


""o^ 


CHAPTER  IX 

AN   AGRARIAN   PRIEST 

A  GROUP  of  people  are  standing  before  a  Midland 
farmhouse.  They  are  quiet  and  reverent ;  Mass  has 
just  been  celebrated  in  the  house,  and  on  the  bench 
outside  a  coffin  is  laid.  It  is  the  forenoon  of  the  day, 
and  the  sun  is  on  the  limewashed  walls  of  the  house. 
The  priest  stands  at  the  threshold  and  speaks  eulogy 
and  consolation.  He  is  a  man  of  the  peasantry, 
with  a  strong  figure  and  a  plain  visage.  He  is  dressed 
for  riding.  He  finishes,  and  the  father  of  the  dead 
boy  steps  to  the  table  and  puts  half  a  sovereign  on 
the  plate.  Everyone  in  the  assembly  comes  forward 
and  puts  down  a  piece  of  silver.  Some  who  make 
contribution  are  here  as  deputies.  "  From  Mrs 
Mulligan,"  says  a  girl;  and  she  is  followed  by  the 
representative  of  a  Protestant  farmer,  "  From  Mr 
Irwin."  The  young  man  who  was  acolyte  at  the  Mass 
counts  the  money  and  arranges  it  before  the  priest. 
Father  Michael  stands  forward  again.  "  The  people 
have  subscribed  £5,  17s.  6d.  This  is  generous,  and 
I  am  very  much  obliged."  His  horse  is  led  down 
the  laneway,  and  Father  Michael  mounts  and  rides 
off.  He  vnW  be  at  the  burial-place  before  the  funeral ; 
the  procession  moves  slowly,  the  coffin  being  carried 
on  the  shoulders  of  the  men. 

The  contributions  from  the  neighbours  are  called 

H  113 


114  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  offerings,"  and  the  custom  of  making  "  offerings  " 
to  the  priest  is  now  only  local.  It  had  its  origin  in 
the  penal  days,  when  the  only  levy  allowed  the 
Cathohc  clergy  were  the  "  offerings  "  made  to  the 
priest  who  officiated  at  the  burial.  The  custom 
persists  in  the  Midland  counties  ;  it  is  galling  to 
many  famihes,  but  where  it  remains  the  priests  are 
particular  that  the  custom  should  not  lapse.  It  is 
by  way  of  being  a  piece  of  mutual  aid,  and  social 
feeling  enters  into  the  "  offerings."  The  people  say  : 
"  Not  much  was  thought  of  her.  The  priest  didn't 
get  £1  in  offerings  at  her  burial."  ''  He  was  a  re- 
spected man.  There  was  £10  in  offerings."  It  is 
a  pity  that  the  offerings  are  not  transferred  from 
burials  to  marriages.  A  contribution  from  the 
neighbours  would  enable  poor  couples  to  get  married. 
I  kept  a  memory  of  Father  Michael  standing  at 
the  threshold  on  that  bright  forenoon.  I  had  glimpses 
of  him  afterwards.  I  would  see  him  stalking  through 
the  town  or  galloping  a  horse  along  a  country  road. 
He  is  not  a  popular  priest.  He  sermonises  the 
young  men  about  the  dangers  of  secret  societies,  and 
he  forbids  the  girls  to  attend  cross-road  dances. 
Amongst  the  elders  he  has  the  name  of  being  close- 
fisted  with  money.  He  was  the  people's  adviser 
during  the  land  agitation ;  he  acted  as  their  repre- 
sentative at  the  settlement,  and  negotiated  the 
transfer  of  the  land  on  very  favourable  terms.  He  is 
now  working  to  bring  about  a  settlement  of  the  graz- 
ing question,  and  if  his  poUcy  succeeds  the  man  with 
the  meagre  farm  will  have  a  strip  of  the  grazing 
ranch  added  to  his  land.  The  Agricultural  Organisa- 
tion Society  have  found  him  an  able  ally.     Father 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  115 

Michael  has  done  much  to  make  the  Co-operative 
Creamery  a  success. 

After  an  interval  I  came  into  personal  contact 
with  Father  Michael.  I  had  been  staying  with 
another  priest,  but  I  shall  not  write  about  him  lest 
I  be  accused  of  favouring  professors  of  my  religion. 
I  will  only  say  that  Father  James  is  a  scholar  with 
a  child's  nature.  An  archaeological  excursion  had 
brought  us  into  the  other  parish.  He  was  informing 
my  mind  on  the  subject  of  the  Midland  clans  when 
Father  Michael  rode  by.  In  his  impetuous  way. 
Father  James  jumped  on  to  a  wall  and  called  to  his 
colleague.  "  Now,"  said  he  to  me,  "  here  is  the  man 
who  can  tell  you  about  the  working  of  the  Land 
Act."  Father  Michael  rode  over,  and  I  was  intro- 
duced. "  We're  in  your  territory,  and  I  give  this 
man  over  to  you,"  said  Father  James.  "  Ask  him 
to  dinner,  and  tell  him  about  the  Land  Bill."  "  Come 
to-night.  Pot-luck,"  said  Father  Michael,  and  he 
rode  away.  "  He  knows  more  about  the  country 
than  any  man  in  Parliament,"  said  Father  James ; 
"  he  has  to  deal  with  a  rough  people,  too."  I 
ventured  to  say  that  I  thought  the  pastor  was  like 
the  parish.  "  Did  I  ever  tell  you  about  Father 
Michael's  uncle  ?  "  asked  Father  James.  "  He  was 
in  the  next  parish.  The  people  were  rougher  there, 
and  Father  Frank  was  a  fit  man  for  them.  It  was  a 
wide  bit  of  country,  but  the  parish  priest  did  not  hke 
to  waste  money  on  a  curate,  and  he  worked  the 
parish  single-handed.  Well,  the  Bishop  was  down 
at  a  confirmation,  and  he  called  Father  Frank  aside. 
"  This  is  a  wide  parish,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  God's 
good !    I've  my  health,  and  I'm  weU  able  for  it," 


116  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

said  Father  Frank.  "  I  must  send  you  a  curate," 
said  the  Bishop.  "  My  Lord,"  said  Father  Frank, 
"  if  I  had  another  horse  I  could  do  the  work  of  two 
parishes."  To  the  end  Father  Frank  worked  with 
horses,  not  with  curates. 

Father  Michael  lives  in  a  house  that  was   once 

occupied  by  Lord 's  agent,  a  roomy  house  with 

a  good  garden  in  front.  The  door  is  opened  by  that 
singular  person,  a  priest's  housekeeper.  We  are 
shown  into  a  room  that  has  a  horsehair  sofa,  a  big 
table,  chairs,  and  spittoons.  It  is  a  bachelor's 
house,  without  grace,  without  neat  touches.  The 
newspapers,  that  litter  the  room  are  the  local 
paper,  and  The  Freeman's  Journal,  and  the  volumes 
in  the  case  are  the  books  Father  Michael  brought 
from  Maynooth.  Dinner  is  served  in  another  room. 
One  can  see  that  Father  Michael  is  of  monophagous 
habits.  We  have  fowl  and  bacon,  apple-pie,  and 
strong  tea.  Whisky  and  different  wines  are  available. 
Self-government  has  no  immediate  interest  for  Father 
Michael.  The  people  want  land,  good  land,  and 
more  land.  The  Government  works  in  a  muddled 
way,  but  it  has  good  intentions,  and  the  country 
improves.  The  new  University  will  fit  Catholics 
to  hold  well-paid  places.  The  transfer  of  the  land 
is  the  beginning  of  the  country's  salvation. 

There  is  no  typical  priest ;  there  are  only  in- 
dividuals with  a  certain  education  and  discipline, 
living  in  a  certain  environment.  But  in  every 
parish  priest  there  is  an  administrator — or  shall  I 
say  a  dictator  ?  In  an  Irish  democracy  the  priest 
is  like  some  great,  semi-independent  public  servant. 
He  marries,   christens  and  buries  ;    says  Mass  and 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  117 

preaches  sermons ;  hears  confession  and  attends 
sick  calls  ;  he  manages  the  schools,  helps  to  organise 
League  branches  and  co-operative  societies,  advises 
the  people  as  to  the  price  they  should  pay  for  land, 
and  the  time  they  should  spray  potatoes.  In  addi- 
tion to  all  this,  he  takes  a  very  active  interest  in  the 
conduct  of  his  people.  This  immense  power  has  its 
abuses ;  in  Father  Michael's  parish,  for  instance, 
people  are  terrified  of  having  a  dance  at  their  house, 
and  young  men  and  women  can  meet  only  in  the  most 
furtive  way.  In  the  next  parish,  however,  there  is 
absolute  freedom.  His  dictatorship  produces  dead- 
ness  or  revolt,  but  not  servility.  "  Ireland  may  be 
priest-ridden,  but  she  refuses  to  be  squire-ridden." 
In  a  district  where  the  utmost  frankness  of  speech 
is  permitted  a  lapse  in  conduct  is  unknown.  Some 
credit  is  due  to  Father  Michael's  vigilance  even  when 
we  have  made  allowance  for  race-psychology  and  the 
long  discipline  of  the  Church. 

What  are  his  ideals  as  regards  his  people  ?  He 
would  have  a  nation  of  peasant  proprietors.  The 
boys  and  girls  should  marry  early,  and  know  as 
little  as  possible  about  the  dangers  and  temptations 
of  courtship.  The  young  men  should  not  belong 
to  any  dangerous  political  associations.  Catholic 
Ireland  should  have  intellectual  distinction,  for 
Father  Michael,  though  he  talks  of  well-paid  places, 
has  the  peasant's  disinterested  feeling  for  learning. 
His  racial  pride  would  be  satisfied  when  the  once- 
dominant  Protestant  acknowledged  Catholic  ability 
in  learning  and  in  business. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    COUNTRY   SCHOOLMASTER 

When  the  stranger  enters  the  school  there  is  a  tumult 
of  children  rising  to  their  feet  in  acknowledgment 
of  the  visit.  The  schoolroom  recalls  a  peasant  in- 
terior :  the  children  are  mannerly  but  not  obtrusively 
disciplined,  the  walls  are  bare  except  for  maps  and 
tablets,  the  floor  is  broken,  the  desks  and  benches 
are  without  ease  or  elegance.  A  turf  fire  burns  in 
the  grate,  and  this  fire  is  made  up  of  a  toll  exacted 
from  the  children.  (In  the  morning  you  might  have 
seen  some  of  them  on  their  way  to  school,  a  turf  from 
the  home  rick  under  the  arm.)  We  are  in  the  boys' 
school ;  about  thirty  pupils  are  present,  and  of 
these  only  a  few  are  over  sixteen.  The  school- 
master, Mr  Jeremiah  Kerrigan,  comes  forward. 
He  is  a  man  of  forty,  with  a  foxy  beard,  sunken 
cheeks,  and  alert  eyes.  If  you  add  to  bluff ness  and 
a  caustic  humour  something  of  command  and  a  con- 
sciousness of  learning  you  have  the  main  indications 
of  his  character.  He  is  of  the  village,  and  so  his 
clothes  are  baggy  and  his  hair  is  untrimmed.  Mr 
Kerrigan  takes  us  round  the  classes.  The  normal 
subjects  are  English  (including  grammar  and  com- 
position), arithmetic,  and  geography.  Some  extra 
subjects — music,  Irish  as  a  foreign  language,  and 
mathematics — are   also   taught.     Twenty-two   hours 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  119 

per  week  are  given  to  secular  instruction.  The  hours 
are  from  9.30  a.m.  to  3  p.m.,  and  children  attend 
school  between  the  ages  of  6  and  17.  After  sixteen 
the  boys  stay  at  home  on  the  farm,  go  into  business, 
or  emigrate.  Mr  Kerrigan  calculates  that  thirty 
per  cent,  of  his  pupils  go  to  America. 

Mr  Jeremiah  Kerrigan  is  at  the  service  of  a  system 
arrived  at  through  a  balance  of  power  between 
the  Government  of  Ireland  and  the  Churches. 
Seventy  years  ago  the  Government  were  unwilling 
to  recognise  the  Catholic  Church  by  the  establishment 
of  denominational  schools.  They  established  non- 
sectarian  schools  and  allowed  the  clergymen  to 
become  the  managers  in  their  parish.  The  Irish 
schools  may  be  defined  as  secular  institutions  under 
clerical  control.  In  their  rules  and  regulations  the 
Commissioners  inform  us  that  the  object  of  their 
system  is  "to  afford  combined  literary  and  moral 
and  separate  religious  instruction  to  children  of  all 
persuasions  as  far  as  possible  in  the  same  school, 
upon  the  fundamental  principle  that  no  attempt 
shall  be  made  to  interfere  with  the  peculiar  religious 
tenets  of  any  description  of  Christian  pupil."  This 
regulation  is  strictly  observed,  though  in  the  main 
each  school  is  attended  by  pupils  of  the  same  religious 
faith.  No  religious  emblems  are  shown,  and  rehgious 
instruction  is  outside  routine.  Clear  notice  of  such 
instruction  is  given,  and  the  pupils  of  a  faith  different 
from  the  majority  have  permission  to  withdraw. 
The  parish  schools  under  Catholic,  Protestant,  or 
Presbyterian  managers  are  practically  autonomous. 
After  some  years'  service,  Mr  Jeremiah  Kerrigan 
has  a  position  of  some  dignity.     He  is  looked  on  as 


no  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

a  colleague  by  the  curate  and  the  parish  priest.  After 
school  he  promenades  the  street  with  the  priest. 
They  walk  up  and  down  discussing  affairs  as  reported 
in  to-day's  Freeman's  Journal.  "  I  see  that  Canon 
MacCabe  is  dead,"  says  Mr  Kerrigan.  "  Ay,  indeed. 
He  was  nearly  elected  bishop  once.  Did  you  read 
Mr  Redmond's  speech  ?  "  "  Yes  ;  I  wouldn't  be 
surprised  if  we  had  a  letter  from  the  Archbishop  in 
to-morrow's  paper,"  and  the  conversation  goes  on 
to  a  discreet  conference  on  parish  affairs.  The 
priest  goes  into  his  house.  Mr  Kerrigan  goes  on  with 
the  paper  in  his  hand.  As  he  passes  the  barracks 
he  salutes  the  sergeant  of  the  police. 

Mr  Jeremiah  Kerrigan  has  a  semi-public  position. 
He  keeps  his  school  up  to  a  certain  standard,  he  has 
charges  at  Mass,  he  takes  part  in  the  teachers'  con- 
ferences. He  may  not  take  an  active  interest  in 
politics,  but  he  does  intermittent  work  for  the  local 
branch  of  the  Gaelic  League.  As  he  walks  along  the 
road  with  his  pipe  lighted  and  the  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  he  thinks  of  the  English  composition  which  he 
has  set  the  upper  class  and  the  mathematical  problem 
which  he  is  working  out  with  the  monitor.  He  is 
from  the  peasantry.  In  his  youth  he  showed  some 
aptitude  for  study,  became  a  monitor,  and  went  up 
to  the  Catholic  Training  College  in  Dublin.  His 
training  consisted  of  two  years'  grind  in  which 
neither  the  dignities  nor  the  amenities  of  teaching 
were  revealed  and  one  crammed  as  for  a  minor  Civil 
Service  appointment.  He  obtained  a  school,  and 
started  with  a  salary  of  £55  per  annum,  a  capitation 
grant,  and  some  fees  for  extra  subjects.  At  present, 
with  a  capitation  grant  of  5s.  per  pupil,  he  has  about 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  121 

£110  per  annum  with  a  residence  and  some  fees  for 
extra  subjects.  Considering  the  standard  of  Hving 
in  an  Irish  village,  Mr  Jeremiah  Kerrigan  is  well 
off.  What  influence  has  he  on  the  community  ? 
All  his  pupils  can  read,  figure,  and  write  an  expressive 
letter.  It  should  be  noted  that  the  system  which  he 
serves  does  not  aim  at  making  the  peasantry  more 
effective  on  the  land.  The  tradition  of  good  agricul- 
ture is  lapsing  in  many  parts  of  Ireland,  and  the 
schools  have  done  nothing  to  make  farming  interest- 
ing. Our  friend  sometimes  teaches  agriculture  as 
an  extra  subject ;  he  expounds  text-books,  making 
the  subject  as  remote  as  political  economy.  He 
teaches  arithmetic,  but  not  arithmetic  as  applied  to 
farming.  The  peasants  never  know  where  they  are 
economically ;  they  sell  their  pigs  at  4d.  per  lb. 
and  buy  American  or  Russian  bacon  at  9d.  per  lb. 
Intelligent  children  attend  school  for  eight  or 
nine  years,  and  they  receive  a  course  of  instruc- 
tion that  is  mainly  literary.  Afterwards  they 
read  the  newspapers  and  take  an  interest  in 
politics. 

Jeremiah  Kerrigan  once  prided  himself  that  he 
was  a  disinterested  reader,  but  since  his  marriage  he 
has  read  only  the  newspapers.  His  books  include 
some  of  Dickens's  novels,  a  volume  of  Scott's  poetry, 
Macaulay's  Essays,  and  a  book  of  Anglo-Irish  verse, 
"  The  Spirit  of  the  Nation."  He  has  three  young 
children,  and  his  house  is  fairly  trim.  He  has  a 
garden,  and  this  afternoon  he  is  bent  on  working  at 
a  horticultural  experiment.  In  the  evening  the 
curate  comes  in  for  a  quiet  smoke.  The  two  sit  down 
to  a  glass  of  punch  and  a  game  of  cards,  and  in  a 


122  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

desultory  way  they  discuss  the  personahties  of  the 
parish.  Some  forward  happenings  enter  their  con- 
versation— the  branch  of  the  Gaehc  League,  the 
Agricultural  Society,  the  visit  of  the  agricultural 
instructor. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A    GRAZIER 

A  ROAD  winds  like  an  iron  band  through  a  crude 
wilderness  of  green.  There  are  no  crops,  there  are 
no  cottages  ;  in  the  course  of  a  day  you  meet  one  or 
two  people  on  the  road,  who  return  your  salutation 
in  a  low  voice  and  with  averted  head.  They  are 
distinctive,  the  people  of  the  grazing  country,  heavy 
of  foot  and  heavy  of  look,  bored  people  who  take  no 
interest  in  the  weather  even.  Cattle  roam  across  the 
pastures  for  a  few  months  of  the  year,  and  on  their 
increase  in  bulk  the  people  live.  Once  the  country 
was  populated,  but  an  economic  change  made  the 
bullock  more  profitable  than  the  peasant,  and  there- 
upon the  landlords  cleared  the  country  of  their 
tenantry.  Now  when  you  pass  the  last  house  in  the 
street  of  a  grazing  town — Navan,  say — you  are  in 
the  wilderness. 

Michael  Fallon  is  a  grazier  who  holds  two  thousand 
acres  of  uncultivated  land.  In  certain  parts  of  the 
country  the  peasantry  have  protested  against  the  graz- 
ing system  by  driving  cattle  off  the  ranches.  Here- 
abouts the  country  has  been  so  effectively  cleared  that 
there  are  no  peasantry  to  drive  his  cattle,  and  so 
Michael  remains  on  good  terms  with  the  popular  move- 
ment. He  is  a  member  of  the  United  Irish  League, 
and  he  subscribes  to  the  party  funds.    He  is  a  good 

123 


124  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

type  of  an  Irishman,  about  forty,  big  and  well  built, 
with  a  spacious  head  that  looks  as  if  it  had  been 
hammered  out  of  some  weighty  metal.  His  face  looks 
weary  and  strained — bored  we  would  say  if  Michael  were 
a  man  of  the  town.  It  would  seem  as  if  his  vigour 
and  strength  had  fallen  into  waste  and  weariness. 
I  fancy  that  Michael  Fallon  would  smile  if  he  read 
the  papers  that  describe  grazing  as  a  prosperous 
Irish  industry.  He  would  tell  you  that  it  is  not 
prosperous,  and  he  knows  that  it  is  not  an  industry. 
On  his  two  thousand  acres  of  Irish  territory  only 
eight  men  are  employed,  to  herd  cattle,  mend  fences, 
and  open  gates.  To  him  grazing  is  not  an  industry 
but  a  gambling  transaction.  In  April  he  buys  young 
cattle  (stores)  from  the  small  farmers  of  the  West, 
gives  them  a  six  months'  feed  on  his  rich  pasture, 
and  then  sells  them  to  the  English  or  Scotch  farmer, 
who  finishes  the  stores  into  fat  cattle.  The  grazier 
makes  from  £1  to  £3  per  head  on  the  transaction, 
but  he  has  borrowed  the  purchase  price  from  a  bank 
that  charges  five  per  cent.  In  Meath  they  say  that 
it  is  only  the  first  generation  of  graziers  that  make 
money.  A  man  coming  from  a  small  farm  and  using 
a  small  farmer's  economies  can  make  money ;  but, 
when  the  children  go  to  public  schools,  study  for 
professions,  and  force  up  the  scale  of  Uving,  grazing 
has  little  profit.  Now  and  again  one  hears  that  the 
importation  of  Canadian  cattle  is  inevitable,  and  that 
the  Irish  grazing  interest  is  menaced.  These  alarms 
do  not  make  the  Meath  grazier  anxious ;  he  expects 
to  buy  stores  at  a  cheaper  rate  from  the  Canadians. 

The  house  and  ranch  that  Michael  Fallon  owns  were 
acquired  by  his  father,   an  egg  dealer,   who  made 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  125 

money  in  a  way  that  would  have  furnished  Balzac 
with  a  sociological  study.  The  house  is  a  barrack-like 
building,  square-built,  with  harsh,  and  rigid  lines. 
There  are  no  trees  around  the  house,  and  all  the 
business  is  transacted  at  the  back  door.  Only  a  few 
of  the  twenty-six  rooms  are  inhabited.  Michael's 
brother,  who  is  thinking  of  going  on  with  his  veteri- 
inary  studies,  hangs  about  the  house,  and  his  sister 
is  sometimes  here.  She  is  reading  for  the  university, 
not  because  she  wants  a  degree,  but  because  the 
student  life  gives  her  an  escape  to  DubHn,  where  she 
has  some  social  interests.  In  this  part  of  the  country 
there  is  no  social  life  ;  in  the  town  below  young  men 
and  women  never  have  any  social  intercourse.  Women 
stand  behind  little  windows  and  watch  people  pass  ; 
the  cramped  parlours  are  filled  with  useless  furniture, 
and  the  only  books  are  photograph  albums  and  table 
editions  of  the  poets.  Michael  Fallon's  house  has  a 
visitor  sometimes  in  the  curate,  and  if  Catherine  is  at 
home  he  and  she  go  out  cycling ;  else  the  men  sit 
together  smoking  and  playing  cards. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    COUNTRY   TRADER 

I  PUT  forward  Mr  James  Covey  as  representing  the 
Country  Trader.  His  store  is  not  in  the  village,  but 
it  has  locality  by  being  near  the  chapel.  Originally 
a  cabin  attached  to  a  bit  of  land,  the  widow,  James's 
mother,  made  a  depot  in  it  for  such  articles  as  candles 
and  snuff,  salt  and  tobacco.  The  stock  and  the 
farm  increased,  and  after  a  few  saving  years,  the 
house  was  rebuilt.  It  stands  on  an  eminence  now — 
large,  slated,  conspicuous  with  whitewash.  Scythes, 
ploughs,  and  harrows  are  shown  outside  the  shop. 
Within  there  are  the  sacks  of  flour  and  sugar,  bacon, 
boots,  shirts,  and  travelHng  trimks.  Mr  Covey  is 
reading  over  an  order  just  received — "  a  sack  of  pol- 
lard, a  pair  of  boots,  a  spraying  machine,  and  a  white- 
wash brush."  Mr  Covey  has  an  agency  from  a  ship- 
ping company — that  is  to  say,  he  is  emigration  agent 
for  the  district.  He  is  a  young  man  with  a  bald 
forehead  and  bKnking  eyes.  I  am  known  to  Mr 
Covey,  and  we  shake  hands.  "  Mr  Covey,  I  saw  your 
name  in  the  papers  as  secretary  to  the  local  branch 
of  the  League.  I  have  credentials,  and  I  would  be 
obliged  if  you  would  take  me  to  a  meeting  in  the 
district."  Mr  Covey  speaks  wavering  words.  "  I'm 
sorry    ...    I  can't  take  you  to  the  meeting    .    .    . 

Don't  belong  to  the  League  now  .  .  .  I've  the  post- 
126 


O      D. 

X    2 

C/3       Ui 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  127 

office.  My  brother  is  secretary  to  the  League,  but 
the  names  aren't  changed  yet."  "  I  see,  Mr  Covey." 
I  sit  down  by  the  counter,  and  we  converse. 

Since  the  beginning  of  his  career  James  Covey  has 
been  associated  with  the  Heme  Rule  movement.  I 
had  seen  his  subscription  to  the  party  funds.  "  The 
Priests  and  People  of  Drumneen,  per  Mr  James 
Covey."  A  branch  of  the  Sinn  Fein  organisation 
had  been  foimded  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  this 
division  has  moved  Mr  Covey  to  send  a  message 
with  the  last  subscription.  "  In  forwarding  our 
contribution,  we  wish  to  register  our  appreciation  of 
these  sterling  patriots,  justly  styled  the  leaders  of 
our  race,  who  stood  where  Parnell  did  in  their  deter- 
mination to  win  for  our  country  a  nation's  rights." 
This  message  was  purely  an  official  utterance.  When 
we  came  to  the  question  of  Home  Rule,  Mi'  Covey 
was  imexpectedly  cautious.  "  After  all,  now  .  .  . 
would  Home  Rule  make  us  better  off  ?  "  The  man 
with  the  bKnking  eyes  and  the  wavering  speech 
became  representative  of  the  real  Conservative 
Ireland — of  that  Ireland  which  is  so  profoundly 
sceptical  of  revolutionary  movements  and  revolu- 
tionary ideas.  Behind  him  I  saw  farmers,  ecclesi- 
astics, officials,  the  Catholic  Conservatives  whose 
weight  would  make  an  Irish  deliberative  body  the 
most  conservative  assembly  in  Europe. 

It  is  the  forenoon  of  the  day,  and  business  in  the 
shop  is  shght.  From  the  back  we  hear  the  sound 
and  stir  of  farm  hfe.  James's  mother  comes  into 
the  shop.  She  hfts  her  head,  and  one  sees  a  massive 
face,  with  living  eyes.  There  is  something  in  her  face 
that  recalls  the  look  of  an  old  priest,  someone  near 


128  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  sod,  yet  having  authority.  She  is  old  but  of 
enduring  build,  and  the  directing  power  is  still  in  her 
gaze.  She  goes  from  the  shop  slowly  and  silently. 
The  woman's  life  has  succeeded.  Her  son  has  shop 
and  farm  ;  he  is  on  the  District  Council ;  is  chairman 
this  year,  and  as  such  is  a  member  of  the  County 
Council,  and  is  eligible  to  sit  with  the  magistrates. 
This  man  of  cautious  enterprise  has  many  interests. 
A  dairy  society  was  established  here  by  the  agricultural 
organisation  society,  but  its  working  was  delayed 
through  insufficiency  of  capital.  James  Covey  put 
in  enough  money  to  purchase  the  machinery,  but  on 
the  condition  that  the  co-operative  society  should  not 
extend  its  operations  to  a  trade  in  eggs.  He  is  on 
the  committee  of  the  dairy  society.  Recently  there 
was  talk  of  forming  a  co-operative  credit  society. 
The  prospect  fell  through  because  James  Covey,  as 
interested  in  the  local  joint-stock  bank,  could  not 
give  it  countenance. 

This  should  be  a  prosperous  period  for  the  shop- 
keepers. In  the  country  money  has  increased,  and 
the  shop-going  habit  has  become  more  frequent. 
The  farmers  sell  everything  they  produce,  and  buy 
everything  they  consume.  They  go  to  the  shop  for 
bread,  butter,  bacon,  and  in  the  same  store  they  buy 
seeds  and  ready-made  clothing.  The  organising 
talent  and  business  capacity  left  in  rural  Ireland  go 
into  the  shops,  and,  in  a  shabby  country  town,  a 
name  across  a  door  may  represent  a  large  business  in 
trading,  farming,  and  hotel-keeping.  Expenses  are 
small,  income  is  steady,  there  are  many  opportunities 
for  petty  investment,  and  so  money  accumulates. 
One  often  hears  of  a  shopkeeper  who  can  dower  his 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  129 

daughter  Avith  thousands,  and  of  a  trader's  widow 
who  can  put  an  altar  into  a  village  chapel  at  a  cost 
of  many  hundred  pounds.  In  destitute  districts  of 
the  West  these  accumulations  are  sometimes  made  in 
a  disreputable  way.  The  peasant  is  kept  in  the  store- 
keeper's power  through  long  credit,  darkened  accounts, 
usury.  The  trader  who  carries  on  such  transactions 
goes  by  the  name  of  a  "  gombeen  man."  Respect- 
able shopkeepers  will  often  advance  the  passage 
money  to  the  son  or  daughter  of  a  poor  debtor, 
knowing  that  the  earnings  coming  back  to  the  emi- 
grant's family  will  return  to  the  shop. 

I  say  good-bye  to  Mr  Covey,  and  I  take  my  de- 
parture. Walking  back,  I  notice  a  mansion  off  the 
road.  Like  so  many  land-owners'  houses,  it  stands 
derelict,  and  through  the  gateway  a  herd-boy  is  driv- 
ing Mr  Covey's  cattle  to  graze  on  the  demesne.  The 
splendid  trees  look  neglected,  the  garden  has  gone  to 
waste,  the  laurels  and  rare  shrubs  make  a  sort  of 
jungle.  The  stone -built  house  shows  httle  sign  of 
ruin,  though  in  one  of  the  upper  windows  a  pane  is 
broken.  In  the  top  corner  of  the  window  a  swarm 
of  bees  has  gathered.  Outside  the  empty  room  the 
bees  have  made  a  changing  cluster  of  jewels.  Likely 
enough,  James  Covey's  grandfather  gave  unremuner- 
ated  labour  to  the  building  of  this  fine  place. 
James  Covey,  the  magistrate,  might  come  to  hve  in 
the  mansion.  But  no.  His  cattle  graze  the  demesne 
on  the  eleven  months'  system,  and  his  chief  concern 
with  the  place  is  by  way  of  getting  the  grazing  on 
favourable  terms. 


PART  II 

ABROAD  IN  BREFFNI 


We  had  been  shifting  through  the  town  for  hours  : 
the  band  had  drawn  us  together,  and  now  it  paraded 
us  into  the  market- square.  The  poHticians,  jour- 
naHsts,  and  local  men  of  the  movement,  had  their 
place  upon  the  platform,  and  we  were  packed  around. 
For  three  hours  we  had  endured  their  speeches.  Not 
we,  but  the  band,  had  become  impatient.  Its  leader 
went  behind  the  platform  and  interviewed  a  young 
ideaUst  who  was  about  to  speak.  "  The  band  is  wait- 
ing," he  said.  The  succeeding  speaker  received  an 
ultimatum.  "I'd  advise  you  to  get  done  with 
talking,  for  the  band  has  something  to  do  besides 
listening  to  speeches."  This  speaker  was  perturbed, 
and  he  made  a  hasty  speech.  To  the  disgust  of  the 
band,  another  speaker  came  forward.  From  him  their 
spokesman  got  a  reply  that  was  like  a  lash  across 
the  face.  He  went  on  the  platform,  a  well-dressed 
young  man  with  a  waxed  moustache  and  a  neat  red 
tie,  and  in  a  moment  we  recognised  him  as  one  who 
could  harden  the  emotion  of  the  crowd.  He  dealt 
only  with  definite  points,  and  he  had  a  passion  that 
never  became  oratorical.  During  his  speech  the  band 
was  preparing  its  coup.  Simultaneously  with  the 
last  word  the  signal  was  hoisted,  and  the  demonstra- 
tion, as  regards  human  articulation,  was  over. 

The  race  distinction  that  made  it  wonderful  for  a 

133 


134  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Planter's  daughter  to  speak  with  one  of  the  United 
Irishmen  still  lived  in  her  face.  She  leaned  from  a 
window  above  a  shop  that  had  a  Palatine  name, 
and  the  band  played  the  tune  that  went  with  the 
words  : — 

"  In  came  the  Captain's  daughter, 
The  Captain  of  the  yeos, 
Saying,  '  Brave  United  Irishmen, 
Will  ne'er  again  be  foes.'  " 

At  the  other  side  of  the  street,  standing  at  her 
door,  was  a  young  woman  whose  face  and  figure  were 
typical  of  this  part  of  the  country.  Her  black  hair 
was  as  heavy  as  the  crown  of  a  barbarian  queen ; 
her  eyes  were  full  and  grey,  her  face  reserved,  but 
quickening  into  proud  inteUigence.  The  strings  of 
shops  were  shuttered,  for  it  was  Sunday,  and  the 
people  gathered  at  their  windows  or  stood  at  their 
doorways.  The  stream  of  sunshine  should  have 
made  for  a  Southern  exuberance,  but  the  crowd 
around  the  band  was  silent  and  unimpassioned. 

Men  and  girls  were  selUng  fruit,  and  we  got  the 
good  savour  of  apples.  There  were  a  few  red-coated 
soldiers  on  the  side  walk.  A  beggar  went  round  the 
skirts  of  the  crowd,  a  boy  with  a  twisted  body,  a 
yellow  face  and  a  begging  lip  that  turned  spiteful 
when  one  repulsed  him.  He  had  come  down  from 
Dublin  in  the  excursion,  and  so  had  the  Cockney 
mandoline-players,  the  brazen-faced  girl,  and  her 
boy-comrade.  A  fair,  handsome,  smiUng  woman  was 
in  charge  of  a  roulette  table  that  was  surrounded  by 
people.  Her  banter  was  sometimes  Rabelasian,  and 
her  vocabulary  was  always  the  vulgar  English  of  the 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  135 

towns.  "  Play  on,  gentlemen,  I'm  only  here  for  a 
holiday,  and  all  I  want  is  a  gob-warmer.  Now,  Httle 
girls,  run  home  and  milk  the  ducks.  Here  you  are, 
young  fellow,  if  I  had  only  an  egg  I'd  give  you  the 
shell.  Don't  leave  the  Red  idle.  Begorra !  the 
yellow  men  are  beating  out  the  white."  I  had  been 
speaking  with  a  woman  who  was  watching  the  scene 
with  the  admiration  of  a  child.  She  was  a  poor 
woman  who  might  have  been  kin  with  those  who 
sung  ballads  in  the  street.  "  I'm  going  home  to  get 
tea  for  myself,"  she  said.  I  asked  her  would  it  be 
trouble  to  give  me  tea.  "  No  trouble,"  she  said, 
"  but  my  house  is  a  poor  house,  and  you  won't  like 
the  inside  of  it."  I  said  I  would  go  with  her  if  she 
would  take  money  for  the  tea  she  gave  me.  She 
took  a  child  up  in  her  arms  and  led  the  way  up  a 
steep  street.  The  house  was  poor  indeed,  and 
inside  it  was  disordered  as  the  nest  of  a  jackdaw. 
She  put  the  child  on  the  floor  and  hung  a  kettle 
over  a  fire  of  sticks. 


II 

It  was  a  lodging-house  for  the  people  of  the  road. 
Beggars,  ballad-singers  and  tramp -musicians  used 
to  He  within  the  chimney  nook  or  behind  the  wooden 
partition.  That  night  a  man,  carrying  a  child,  came 
in.  The  man  was  dressed  in  home-spuns,  and  he 
looked  as  if  he  had  been  at  some  sedentary  employ- 
ment. His  face  had  the  nervous  excitement  that 
one  sees  in  the  faces  of  subdued  people  when  they 
break  loose.     The  child  was  about  six,  and  his  face 


186  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

might  become  the  face  of  a  cold  reserved  and  brilliant 
man.  I  asked  the  elder  if  he  had  travelled  far. 
"  I'm  starting  back  on  a  long  journey,"  he  said. 
"  Myself  and  Mamis  the  child  went  rambhng.  Last 
August  we  went  from  our  own  place  in  the  County 
Monaghan.  These  are  fine  bright  days.  I  think 
it  will  be  a  good  year  for  the  country.  I  think 
we'll  be  better  off  from  this  time,  with  the  help  of 
God."  Later  in  the  night  I  gave  him  my  coat  to 
wrap  round  Manus.  The  child  went  asleep.  Then 
the  man  told  me  of  his  travels. 


Ill 

Michael  Philibeen  was  his  name,  and  he  was  a 
weaver.  He  had  been  reared  in  the  County  Cavan, 
but  his  father's  place  and  his  own  place  was  in  the 
County  Monaghan.  When  he  was  young  (about  the 
age  of  Manus,  he  told  me)  his  mother  had  some 
dispute  with  her  husband,  and,  taking  the  child 
with  her,  she  left  him  and  came  to  her  own  people 
in  this  part  of  the  country.  "  I  found  my  mother's 
people  different  to  the  people  in  Monaghan,"  said 
Michael  Philibeen.  "  They  were  fond  of  hunting 
and  sporting,  and  music  and  stories.  My  uncle 
taught  me  to  play  the  flute,  and  I  soon  could  play 
it  very  well  for  my  age.  In  two  years  my  mother 
went  back  to  my  father's  home,  and  I  went  with  her. 
Then  my  father  put  me  to  the  loom,  and  he  began  to 
teach  me  the  trade  he  had  got  down  from  his  father 
and  from  the  fathers  before  him.  I  worked  in  the 
house ;    but  I  often  longed  for  my  uncle's  house, 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  137 

for  the  music  at  night,  the  fun,  and  the  story-teUing. 
I  stole  away  when  I  was  a  lad,  big  enough  to  know 
better,  and  I  went  into  the  County  Cavan.  I  became 
a  strolling  musician,  playing  along  the  roads  on  the 
flute,  the  one  instrument  I  had  power  over.  I  used 
to  play  at  cross-road  dances,  and  in  the  house  when 
there  would  be  some  festivity ;  but  I  was  happiest 
when  there  was  no  gathering  about  me,  when  I  would 
sit  on  a  grassy  ditch  and  play  to  myself.  But  of 
course  I  wouldn't  be  left  to  that  life.  My  father 
sent  for  me  again  and  again,  but  I  refused  to  go  back 
to  the  loom.  My  uncle  came  and  advised  me  to  go 
back  to  the  shelter  and  the  good  trade.  Then  my 
mother  came,  and  I  craved  her  to  let  me  go  my  own 
way.  She  told  me  that  my  father  was  getting  old 
and  wanted  to  see  his  son  at  the  loom.  I  was  heart- 
broken, I  refused  to  go  back.  I  kept  to  the  roads, 
though  I  knew  that  I  was  not  a  rambler  out  and  out, 
and  I  often  used  to  think  of  the  kindness  of  the 
settled  life.  I  had  set  my  father  aside  and  would  not 
listen  to  my  mother,  and  maybe  what  fell  on  me 
afterwards  was  a  judgment  from  God.  Some  sickness 
came  on  me,  and  my  teeth  dropped  away,  and  so  I 
lost  power  over  the  flute,  the  one  instrument  I  could 
play. 

"  I  went  back  to  my  father's  country ;  he  settled 
me  down  at  the  loom,  and  I  kept  to  the  business  very 
steadily.  My  father  had  one  trouble  on  his  mind, 
and  that  was  to  find  wife  for  me,  a  woman  that 
would  keep  me  to  the  loom  when  he  would  be  gone. 
Well,  he  made  a  match  for  me  after  my  mother 
died,  and  the  match  turned  out  well  enough.  Manus 
was  the  one  child,  and  before  he  was  born  my  father 


138  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

had  died,  and  he  left  the  loom  and  the  shelter  to  me 
and  my  wife. 

"  Year  after  year  I  worked  on  at  the  weaving, 
sitting  in  the  house.  I  kept  from  the  roads,  and  I 
would  not  let  my  mind  be  on  the  music.  If  anyone 
around  asked  me  for  a  tune  I  would  first  shake  my 
head.  Sometimes,  if  I  was  in  a  house  where  music 
was  getting  played,  I'd  feel  the  heart  within  me 
become  twisted,  and  I  would  have  to  get  up  and 
go  out  of  the  house.  And  there  would  be  no  sport 
nor  company  in  my  own  house.  My  wife  had  no 
care  for  these  things,  indeed  she  only  wanted  to 
keep  her  hands  busy.  And  now  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing about  my  woman,  as  you're  not  hkely  to  meet 
her  nor  to  carry  the  story  further.  Her  people  were 
very  respectable,  but  they  met  with  misfortune, 
and  they  were  evicted  from  their  own  holding.  My 
wife  herself  had  to  go  to  the  workhouse  for  a  while. 
Now,  that  was  always  on  her  mind,  and  she  made  it 
her  devotion  to  make  a  good  place  for  ourselves — 
a  house  that  she  could  shov/  to  the  friends  who 
sometimes  came  to  visit  her.  And  so  she  was  always 
working,  and  our  little  house  and  garden  was  not 
enough  for  the  spirit  that  was  in  her.  She  worked 
abroad,  washing  in  this  house,  sewing  in  that,  weeding 
in  this  man's  garden.  And  all  the  time  I  would  be 
sitting  at  the  loom,  thinking  things  over,  talking  to 
myself,  or  to  Manus,  the  child,  who  was  beginning 
to  grow  up  and  to  give  a  sort  of  heed  to  me.  I 
talked  so  much  about  the  County  of  Cavan  that  the 
cliild  knew  the  place  as  well  as  myself.  Manus 
made  no  friends,  and  me  and  him  were  all  and  all 
with  each  other.     Well,  last  year  I  began  to  take 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  139 

him  about  the  country  while  his  mother  was  abroad 
working.  I  would  take  him  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
or  to  the  shore  of  the  lake.  I  began  to  find  my  eyes 
for  birds'  nests,  and  no  matter  how  thick  the  hedge 
I  could  show  Manus  the  hedge-sparrow's  nest ;  I 
could  find  him  the  lark's  nest  on  the  ground,  or  the 
robin's  in  an  old  shoe,  or  in  a  tin  can.  And  I  was 
beginning  to  feel  that  it  wouldn't  be  such  a  desperate 
thing  to  go  into  the  County  Cavan  and  stay  there 
for  a  while,  for  my  child  was  growing  up  and  his 
mother  was  in  no  way  depending  upon  me.  July 
came,  and  long  before  daybreak  I'd  find  myself  awake, 
and  the  child  would  be  awake,  too.  Then  Manus 
would  talk  to  me  about  the  County  Cavan,  and  I 
promised  the  child  I  would  go  away  before  the 
weaving;  commenced  and  take  him  with  me. 

"  Soon  after  my  woman  began  to  bring  in  the 
stuff  for  the  weaving,  and  I  had  to  put  the  first 
threads  on  the  loom.  That  day  Manus  brought  in 
the  nest  of  a  blackbird,  and  my  heart  was  nearly 
broken  when  he  left  it  down  before  me.  I  felt  that 
the  good  of  my  life  was  going  while  I  was  putting 
in  the  threads.  I  talked  to  Manus,  and  in  the  end 
I  told  him  that  we  would  start  on  the  journey  next 
day.  Then  my  wife  came  in ;  she  had  more  stuff 
for  the  weaving,  and  she  began  to  take  the  little 
pictures  down  off  the  wall,  for  she  wanted  to  begin 
white-washing  there  and  then,  as  she  had  heard 
some  friends  of  hers  were  coming  to  the  pattern, 
and  they  would  be  likely  to  visit  her.  Now,  what 
she  said  about  friends'  visits  gave  me  the  opening 
for  what  I  wanted  to  say,  but  my  heart  was  beating 
so  fast  that  I  had  to  let  the  chance  go  by.     Then 


140  ]MY  IRISH  YEAR 

after  a  while  I  began  to  say  how  I  had  friends,  too, 
and  that  I  wanted  to  visit  them.  She  didn't  take 
that  easy  on  account  of  all  the  stuff  that  was  in  the 
house  for  the  weaving,  but  my  mind  was  made  up, 
and  she  had  to  give  in  to  me.  I  told  her  I  was  taking 
Manus,  and  she  said :  '  Well,  let  you  take  the  child 
with  you,  for  he  has  yoiu*  own  temper,  and  he  will 
never  be  bid  by  me.'  Then  she  made  provision  for 
us,  and  sent  up  warm  clothes  for  Manus,  and  in  the 
morning  we  took  to  the  road,  leaving  the  yarn  to  be 
woven  by  Peter  Martin,  the  travelling  weaver,  who 
used  to  stay  in  our  house. 

"  We  walked  part  of  the  way,  and  I  carried  Manus 
part  of  the  way,  and  for  part  of  the  way  we  got  lifts 
on  the  carts.  We  went  over  a  good  many  miles  on 
the  first  day.  I  had  to  tell  Manus  all  about  the 
woods,  for  ours  is  a  bare  country,  and  he  only  saw 
the  trees  by  themselves.  And  when  I  told  him  about 
the  squirrels  he  was  in  dread,  for  I  told  him  of  the 
way  they  get  angry  and  let  on  to  bark  when  they  see 
us  making  a  claim  on  the  woods.  I  told  liim  of  the 
times  we  used  to  have  in  the  bird-catching  season, 
when  I'd  set  my  cage  in  the  open  field,  and  how 
my  jewel  of  a  singing  bird  would  draw  down  the 
flocks  about  him.  Ah !  them  were  happy  times 
for  me,  and  it's  no  wonder  I  remembered  them  and 
could  talk  about  them  to  Manus  !  The  world  hadn't 
made  itself  hard  to  me  then.  I  could  put  the  flute 
to  my  mouth  and  play  when  the  cages  were  gathered 
up  on  the  bank.  And  when  I'd  go  home  when  'twas 
dark,  there  was  always  the  song  or  story  by  my 
uncle's  fire.  It  was  no  wonder  I  remembered  them 
days,  and  that  my  stories  of  them  times  could  shorten 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  141 

the  road  for  Manus  !  An  end  came  to  the  first  day's 
rambling,  and  I  asked  for  shelter  at  a  house  by  the 
road.  The  woman  made  us  welcome  to  the  fire, 
but  she  had  no  bed  to  give  us.  I  took  down  the 
reaping  hook,  and  I  went  outside  and  cut  the  tops 
of  the  heather  and  brought  in  a  bed  for  myself  and 
Manus.  The  sweet-smelling  tops  of  the  heather ! 
The  best  bed  that  a  man  ever  lay  upon. 

"  The  crops  didn't  look  well  in  our  own  country. 
The  potatoes  that  were  dug  made  us  think  of  a  poor 
prospect  before  us.  But  the  prospect  seemed  blacker 
in  the  country  that  we  were  going  into,  for  they 
seemed  to  have  a  heavier  and  more  constant  rain. 
It  w^as  a  poor  country,  and  we  saw  it  in  the  faUing 
rain ;  and  that  made  the  country  more  desolate. 
We  didn't  see  any  comfortable  houses  on  the  second 
day's  journey ;  we  saw  wet  hills  with  lone  sheep 
climbing  them,  and  we  saw  bogs  with  stretches  of 
canavan,  and  all  their  white  heads  drooped  in  the 
rain.  On  a  wet,  dark  night  we  came  to  a  house. 
It  was  a  poor  httle  place,  but  we  could  go  no  further. 
They  gave  us  a  bed  by  the  hearth,  but  their  fire  was 
only  the  wet  sods  and  the  bits  of  sticks.  The  children 
that  sat  round  were  white  and  quiet,  and  when  we 
broke  the  cake  we  offered  them  a  share.  Shame- 
faced enough  the  children  took  the  bread.  When 
we  were  making  a  start  in  the  morning  the  woman  of 
the  house  came  to  us.  '  Turn  back,'  she  said,  '  for 
there's  misfortune  on  this  country.  The  rain  was 
constant  on  the  ridges,  and  our  Uttle  children  will 
die  of  the  hunger.'  She  followed  us  out  on  the  road. 
*  Turn  back,'  she  said,  '  turn  back.' 

"  We  went  on,  but  my  heart  was  low  enough,  I 


142  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

tell  you,  when  I  carried  Manus  in  my  arms,  and  saw 
how  poor-looking  were  the  children  that  we  met 
along  the  roads.  We  were  coming  to  the  place  of 
my  mother's  people,  but  how  did  I  know  whether 
the  people  there  would  not  be  poorer  than  the  people 
we  met,  and  how  did  I  know  whether  there  would  be 
any  comfort  for  Manus,  or  any  welcome  before  us 
at  all  ?  Then  we  came  to  a  place  that  I  knew  well, 
a  green  space  with  a  cromlech  in  it  and  big  stones 
around.  It  was  there  we  used  to  have  the  dances 
in  the  old  times.  I  gave  Manus  the  shelter  of  the 
cromlech,  and  I  sat  beside  him  with  very  lonesome 
feelings.  I  remembered  the  dances  there  and  how 
I  used  to  make  music  for  the  couples,  and  I  remem- 
bered a  girl  who  used  to  sit  beside  me  when  I  played, 
and  who  used  to  dance  with  me  when  I  danced. 
It  was  no  wonder  that  I  was  lonesome  and  dispirited, 
and  without  the  courage  to  face  the  journey  before  me. 
"  We  sat  there  by  the  stones  for  a  while,  Manus 
and  myself  watching  the  rain  falling.  The  road 
was  bare  and  empty  for  a  time,  and  then  we  saw  a 
lone  woman,  a  traveller  or  a  tramp,  coming  along. 
The  woman  came  over  to  talk  to  us,  and  we  found 
out  that  she  was  going  to  the  country  that  we  had 
left.  She  wasn't  going  by  the  road,  but  by  a  short 
way  across  the  hills.  She  didn't  know  us  at  all, 
but  all  the  same  she  had  news  for  us.  My  wife's 
brother,  a  parish  priest  in  America,  had  come  back 
to  Ireland  on  a  visit.  The  woman  had  seen  him  in 
the  place  where  she  was  last,  and  she  knew  that  the 
priest  was  gone  to  visit  at  our  home.  '  He  is  a  grand 
high-up  man,'  said  the  travelling-woman,  '  and  the 
house  where  he  is  does  be  filled  up  with  money  and 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  143 

presents.  He's  staying  with  his  sister  for  a  week 
only,  but  the  weaver's  house  will  be  worth  going 
into  while  he's  there.  I'll  be  at  Mrs  Philibeen's 
to-morrow,  for  I  know  a  short  way  across  the  hills.' 

"  '  Will  you  go  back  ?  '  said  I  to  the  child.  '  The 
priest  will  have  lovely  things  for  you,  and  I  don't 
think  that  there's  any  warmth  or  comfort  before  us.' 
'  No,'  said  Manus,  '  we  won't  go  back  till  the  rise 
of  the  year.'  I  let  the  travelHng- woman  go,  and 
I  took  Manus  by  the  hand,  and  we  went  on  towards 
the  house  that  I  knew.  And  Manus  walked  on  so 
manfully  that  my  o^vn  courage  came  back  to  me. 
We  came  to  my  uncle's  house,  and  it  was  a  happy 
story  with  us  from  that  until  the  present  minute. 
My  uncle  had  no  children  of  his  own,  and  he  and  his 
woman  were  overjoyed  to  see  Manus.  And  their 
turf  was  well  saved,  and  they  had  the  meal  and  the 
bacon.  And  we  showed  Manus  the  wood  and  the 
lake,  the  squirrel  gathering  up  its  store,  and  the  crane 
rising  out  of  the  tufts,  and  the  badger  coming  out  of 
its  hole.  Then  came  the  rise  of  the  year,  and  Manus 
and  myself  made  the  start  for  home,  well  satisfied 
with  ourselves,  though  indeed  the  kindly  people 
weren't  satisfied  that  we  should  go." 


IV 

Outside  the  town  I  came  on  three  of  the  bad  people 
of  the  Irish  roads — on  two  men  and  a  woman  of  the 
tinker  tribe.  The  boss-tinker  held  up  a  cm*  by  the 
back  of  the  neck  and  offered  to  sell  it  to  me.  The 
other  was  chasing  a  young  crow  that  had  been  dropped 


144  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

out  of  the  nest.  When  I  looked  back  the  first  had 
taken  up  his  bass  and  ash-plant  and  was  walking 
a  yard  ahead  of  the  miserable  woman,  his  mate. 
The  other  was  casting  stones  at  the  young  jackdaws 
that  had  been  discoursing  amongst  themselves  in 
their  habitations  above  the  green  branches  of  a  Hme 
tree.  "  What  is  the  tinker's  curse  ?  "  said  I  once 
to  a  knowledgable  man.  "  I  will  tell  you,"  said  he. 
"  Only  myself  knows  it.  He  never  goes  under  a 
roof.  Here's  what  the  tinker  says  when  he  passes 
by  your  house  and  mine  : — 

"  '  You  build  houses !  ay,  like  the  crows,  you  put  stick  and  stick 

together. 
May  I  see  a  scatter  of  sticks  and  the  kites  a-chase  through  the 

wood  ! 
You  live  man  and  wife,  you  say,  like  the  goats,  two  and  two 

a-tether, 
For  fear  ye  would  reach  to  the  hedge-tops,  and  the  wild  taste 

get  in  your  blood  !  '  " 

The  roads  are  bare  and  empty  and  the  country 
is  hardly  inhabited  :  along  the  Farnham  estate  there 
are  few  farm-houses  and  few  signs  of  crops.  I  discover 
an  Orange  Lodge  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  I  remem- 
ber that  I  am  now  amongst  the  Orange  farmers. 
Now  and  then  I  hear  an  accent  that  reminds  me  of 
North-east  Ulster,  and  sometimes  I  see  a  hard- 
featured  type  of  face  that  is  distinct  from  the  Gaelic 
stock  of  Cavan.  Yet,  about  here,  many  Orange 
famiUes  have  Breffni  clan-names  such  as  Brady, 
Reilly,  Rourk,  Sheridan.  But  whether  of  the  Planter 
breed  or  of  the  native  stock,  the  Protestants  here- 
abouts form  a  distinct  population.  This  was  a 
planted  district,   and   the   strife   between   the  Pro- 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  145 

testant  settlers  and  the  native  Catholics  has  been  an 
issue  to  the  memory  of  the  Hving.  The  people  have 
a  vivid  tradition  of  the  events  that  happened  here 
during  the  war  of  the  Cathohc  Confederation.  The 
county  is  the  pass  to  Connacht,  and  the  fringe  of  the 
confiscated  province  of  Ulster.  ...  A  Breffni 
Captain,  back  from  Spain,  rode  this  way  once.  The 
clansmen  around  him  were  shouting  for  a  victory 
won,  but  the  O'Rourk  or  the  O'Reilly  rode  in  silence, 
thinking  how  Owen  Roe  O'Neill  would  smite  the 
Scots  and  check  the  English  Puritans,  and  how, 
without  artillery,  the  "  undertaker  "  towns  might 
be  reduced.  Later,  stark  upon  his  horse,  an  Irish 
scout  galloped  with  the  tidings  that  Owen  Roe  was 
dead  in  Lough  Oughter  Castle,  near  hand,  and  that 
the  Saxon,  Oliver  Cromwell,  was  on  Irish  ground. 
An  Irish  Walter  Scott  would  make  this  empty  country 
fuU  of  memories.  The  people  remember  a  man  of 
their  own  who  was  a  vigorous  leader  under  Owen 
Roe  O'Neill— Myles  O'Reilly  who  was  called  "  Myles 
the  Slasher."  They  present  Myles  as  if  he  had  Uved 
and  died  within  their  memory.  Historical  docu- 
ments imply  that  when  Cromwell  ended  the  war, 
Myles  O'Reilly  took  service  with  the  King  of  Spain. 
He  died  here,  and  was  waked  here,  say  the  people. 
They  tell  how  the  O'Reillys  won  back  their  own 
territory,  but  brought  home  Myles,  their  leader,  dead. 
For  three  days  and  three  nights  they  waked  him 
in  the  O'Reilly  stronghold  with  soldiers  and  clansmen, 
priests  and  musicians,  beggars  and  keening  women 
thronging  round.  If  we  had  a  Walter  Scott  he 
would  make  this  tradition  memorable. 

This  was  a  planted  district,  and  consequently  the 


146  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Catholics  have  bitter  memories  of  confiscation  and 
persecution.  But  between  Protestants  and  CathoHcs 
no  feud  exists  now.  Protestants  and  CathoHcs 
form  distinct  populations.  Tliey  will  remain  dis- 
tinct for  long,  but  when  the  question  of  Irish  self- 
government  is  out  of  the  way,  the  ditch  that  divides 
will  be  filled  up  or  broken  down — I  do  not  know 
which  happens  to  a  ditch. 

I  am  making  my  way  by  a  pecuHar  edifice  that  is 
on  a  lump  of  a  hill  a  long  way  off.  This  shell  of  a 
building  is  called  "  Fleming's  Folly,"  by  the  people. 
There  was  a  Captain  Fleming,  who,  in  dread  of  losing 
his  estates,  kept  away  from  the  CathoUc  muster. 
Sarsfield,  say  the  people,  rode  up  to  Fleming's  Castle. 
Captain  Fleming  was  away,  said  the  servant.  Sars- 
field was  furious  at  the  evasion.  There  was  a  marble 
table  in  the  hall  and  he  struck  it  with  liis  sword, 
spHtting  the  marble  across.  "  Tell  him,"  said  he, 
"  that  Patrick  Sarsfield  came  to  Fleming's  Castle." 

That  was  during  the  Williamite  wars.  One  could 
continue  the  story  of  the  country  through  the  great 
houses  that  I  can  see  from  the  road.  Fine  avenues 
lead  up  to  them,  but  the  mansions  are  falling  into 
ruin.  These  great  houses  were  built  at  a  cost  of 
fourpence  halfpenny  per  day,  per  man.  Labour 
in  men  and  horses  was  forced  from  the  peasantry. 
Sometimes  the  building  was  helped  by  government 
subsidy,  for  these  great  mansions  were  administrative 
centres  and  barracks  in  disaffected  districts.  I 
know  a  deserted  mansion  where  doors  and  ^vindow- 
shutters  are  painted  to  look  like  wood ;  they  are  of 
iron,  and  they  have  their  port-holes.  When  their 
houses  were  built,  the  gentry  had  sold  their  parha- 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  147 

ment.  What  is  their  after  history  ?  They  make 
"  clearances "  and  arm  Orange  Lodges,  they  de- 
cline to  impotence,  and  are  presented  with  a  "  bonus." 
They  drift  away  or  take  themselves  out  of  the 
country.  Some  of  these  mansions  are  being  made 
into  educational  estabHshments — ^the  Agricultural 
College  at  Ballyhaise  was  a  landowner's  seat — and  a 
few  have  been  turned  into  convents.  The  greater 
number  must  go  into  the  decay  that  soon  overtakes 
the  deserted  house.  The  class  that  is  succeeding 
the  landlords  do  not  want  to  pay  cess  on  these 
mansions,  and  at  present  they  would  as  lief  Hve  in 
the  gate  lodges. 

Two  peasants  with  a  pair  of  greyhounds  in  leash 
came  out  of  a  forsaken  avenue.  I  asked  one  of  them 
who  had  owned  the  mansion.  "  O'Rourke,  King  of 
Breffni,"  said  he,  good-humouredly.  "  Did  you  not 
know  that  this  is  the  place  that  Thomas  Moore 
meant  in  the  song,  '  The  Valley  lay  SmiHng  before 
Me  ?  '  "  They  went  their  way  then.  Later,  I  encoun- 
tered them  in  a  wayside  pubhc-house.  "  This  is  a 
fine  dog,"  said  I,  patting  one  eager  head.  "  I  wouldn't 
say  so,"  said  the  man  who  had  spoken  to  me  first. 
"  But  the  other  hound,"  said  he,  impressively,  "  was 
runner-up  for  the  cup."  They  were  coming  from  a 
coursing  match  :  every  year  for  forty  years  they  had 
attended  it.  They  had  prolonged  their  boyhood  these 
gentle  good-humoured  men :  they  were  happy  in 
their  fellowship  and  happy  in  their  possessions : 
they  enjoyed  their  tramp  across  the  hills,  their 
refreshment  on  the  wayside,  their  raillery  of  a  pre- 
tentious outsider. 

The  tinkers  were  approaching  when  we  left  the 


148  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

public-house — ^the  man  with  the  bass  and  ash-plant 
first,  the  woman  dragging  after  him,  and  the  un- 
attached tinker  foUomng  with  the  dog.  They  stood 
for  a  while  in  random  consultation,  then  they 
moved  inside.  These  tinkers  did  not  seem  to  be 
loth  to  go  under  the  roof  of  a  public-house. 

The  Irish  provincial  papers  are  probably  the 
worst  written  in  any  European  language.  The  sheets 
are  filled  with  reports  of  meetings  of  Boards  of 
Guardians,  and  proceedings  at  petty  sessions.  Yet 
a  good  deal  of  national  expression  gets  into  a  local 
paper  such  as  I  have  in  my  hand.  I  see  that  at  a 
meeting  of  a  certain  District  Council,  a  letter  in 
these  terms  was  read.  It  was  from  a  labourer 
complaining  about  a  smoky  chimney  : — 

"  I  have  ripped  open  the  back,  belly,  and  side  of 
this  infernal  chimney,  and  even  put  a  coaxyorum 
on  its  summit,  but,  wonderful  to  relate,  the  smoke 
retreated  hastily,  made  for  the  window,  and  would 
not  even  look  at  my  coaxyorum. 

"  So  great  is  the  suction  downwards  that  no  lark 
can  warble  o'er,  no  jackdaw  or  jay  can  touch  its 
summit,  else  they  will  get  sucked  down  and  cre- 
mated in  this  inferno. 

"  '  I  may  break,  I  may  shatter  the  house  as  I  will, 
But  the  smell  of  the  smoke  will  hang  round  it  still.' 

"  The  walls  are  in  mourning,  the  ceiUng  the  same, 
and  my  wardrobe,  etc.,  saturated  with  the  intolerable 
smell  of  smoke.  I  must  tell  you  that  I  am  a  widower 
and  mean  to  have  another  try  in  the  matrimonial 
market  and  select  a  fair  colleen,  only  I  would  be 
afraid  I  might  be  indicted  for  woman  slaughter  if 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  149 

she  got  suffocated.  But  the  two  stone-hearted 
district  councillors  should  be  in  the  dock  also,  because 
they  would  not  even  look  into  the  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta — for  it  is  nothing  else." 

It  was  decided  to  attend  to  this  chimney. 

When  the  tinkers  passed  me  they  were  singing 
together,  and  they  seemed  happy  enough.  When 
I  came  upon  them  again  the  woman  was  crying. 
She  called  out  to  me,  "  0  sir,  sir,  he  has  cut  me, 
sir.  Look,  I'm  bleeding."  I  spoke  to  her :  the 
man  hardly  interested  himself  in  the  business.  "  She 
fell  into  a  ditch,"  he  said,  without  caring  whether 
I  accepted  his  statement  or  not.  "  He  cut  me  with 
an  ash-plant  across  the  cheek.  Look,  I'm  bleeding." 
Sure  enough  there  was  a  red  spot  upon  her  cheek, 
and  the  man  had  an  ash-plant  in  his  hand.  "  If 
she  had  to  keep  sober  she  wouldn't  have  fallen  into 
the  ditch."  He  called  to  the  dog,  "Here,  Guff, 
Guff — where's  the  dog  gone  to  ?  "  He  was  not 
interested  in  the  complaints  of  the  woman,  but  he 
was  interested  in  finding  the  dog.  We  went  along 
the  road  in  a  string,  the  three  tinkers  and  m.yself. 
They  were  a  scubby,  undersized  lot.  The  man  with 
the  bass  had  a  certain  rotundity  and  a  certain  pro- 
phecy of  obtaining  his  satisfactions.  The  two  men 
went  off  together,  the  unattached  tinker  now  taking 
up  the  hunt  for  the  dog.  The  woman  sat  by  the 
roadside,  crying  to  herself.  She  wore  an  ugly  black 
cape  and  an  ugly  black  straw  hat.  She  sat  for  a 
while,  miserable,  with  hanging  mouth  and  tears 
upon  her  face.  I  came  up  with  the  other  two  again. 
"  He  struck  me  with  his  belt,"  the  unattached 
tinker  was   saying.     "  Then   I  struck  him  and  he 


150  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

knocked  me  down.  I  called  over  the  Hearseman 
to  save  me."  "  And  what  did  he  do  ?  "  said  the 
other.  "He  knocked  Mac  down  and  I  stepped  on 
with  Mac  and  hoisted  him  into  the  ditch.  He  had 
no  coat  on,  and  my  waistcoat  was  pulled  off  without 
me  taking  off  the  coat.  The  back  was  pulled  out  of 
it.  Then  I  let  Mac  through  the  ditches  and  bushes, 
and  everywhere  in  the  dark." 

A  company  of  engineers  was  passing  to  their 
wagons.  The  man  with  the  bass  took  off  his  cap, 
made  an  obeisance,  produced  a  broad-sheet  and  began 
to  sing  a  ballad  of  farewell.  The  unattached  tinker 
was  equally  business-hke.  He  picked  up  Guff  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck  and  hawked  him  amongst  the 
soldiers.  The  woman  kept  quiet  so  as  not  to  em- 
barrass the  business.  But  the  soldiers  marched  by. 
The  man  with  the  bass  folded  up  the  ballad-sheet  and 
abruptly  ceased  his  song.  For  a  long  stretch  of  the 
road  I  had  them  behind  me  ;  the  two  men  whistUng 
or  talking  of  wayside  fights,  and  the  woman  moaning 
again. 


That  evening  I  had  an  adventure  with  two  members 
of  the  army  of  occupation,  or,  as  some  would  prefer 
to  call  them,  the  army  of  no  occupation,  the  Royal 

Irish  Constabulary.     Between  the  town  of  B and 

the  village  of  C I  came  upon  a  brace  of  con- 
stables. They  were  lying  in  the  ditch,  smoking 
their  pipes.  As  I  passed  I  remembered  that  there 
was  an  inquiry  in  my  mind  that  the  patrol  were 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  151 

competent  to  answer.  I  determined  to  raise  the 
question  on  our  next  meeting.  Outside  the  town 
I  met  the  children  of  my  friends  and  turned  back. 
We  caught  up  a  country  woman  who  was  carrying 
some  packages  and  a  heavy  basket.  The  children 
helped  her  with  the  parcels,  and  I  took  possession 
of  the  basket.  ^Vhen  we  came  to  the  poHce  again  I 
was  one  of  a  group  of  country  people.  They  were 
still  in  the  ditch.  I  turned  to  one  with  the  query, 
''  Would  you  tell  me  the  meaning  of  a  proclamation 
that  I  saw  in  Carrigallen  last  Tuesday  ?  "  Now, 
unawares,  I  was  asking  an  invidious  question,  as  this 
proclamation  had  reference  to  the  withdrawal  of 
extra  poHce  from  the  County  Leitrim.  "  The  meaning 
of  the  proclamation — would  you  hke  to  know  ?  " 
"  Yes."  "  Why  didn't  you  read  it  ?  "  "I  was  too 
far  away."  "  Then  you  can  go  to  Hell."  There 
was  notliing  to  be  done  at  the  moment,  so  I  lifted 
the  basket  and  went  on  with  my  friends.  Later  I 
came  on  the  patrol ;  they  were  leaning  against  the 
parapet  of  the  railway  bridge.  "  Your  pardon, 
gentlemen,"  said  I,  "  were  you  the  constables  I  met 
a  while  ago  ?  "  "  Would  you  hke  to  know  ?  "  said 
one,  and  "  What's  that  to  you  ?  "  said  the  other. 
I  asked  for  an  apology  for  rudeness,  but  they  said, 
"  Go  home  now,  or  we'll  throw  you  over  the  bridge." 
Their  insolence  came  from  the  fact  that  they  regarded 
the  country  people  as  Eastern  officials  regard  the 
provincials.  Such  a  woman  sold  porter  illicitly  ;  if 
her  friends  were  uncivil  to  the  constables  they  could 
show  their  power.  So-and-so's  children  grazed  a 
few  cows  along  the  side  of  the  road ;  if  their  father 
raised  his  head  there  would  be  a  case  of  technical 


152  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

obstruction.  I  saw  how  easy  it  was  for  the  Royal 
Irish  Constabulary  to  fall  into  the  insolence  of  Turkish 
officials. 

Next  morning  I  called  at  the  barracks.  The 
sergeant,  good,  easy  man,  was  recovering  from  an 
attack  of  delirium  tremens  and  was  "  shook  "  as 
the  saying  is.  He  asked  the  constables  to  apologise, 
but  again  they  used  the  word  "  Hell."  I  might  have 
communicated  with  the  authorities  had  I  not  a  pre- 
judice against  addressing  myself  to  DubHn  Castle. 


The  Royal  Irish  Constabulary 

The  Royal  Irish  Constabulary  are  a  force  of  11,000 
armed  men,  distributed  through  1475  stations. 
They  are  not  under  local  control,  but  are  ordered 
directly  from  Dublin  Castle.  For  their  upkeep  the 
Imperial  power  raises  £1,400,000  in  Ireland,  an 
amount  largely  in  excess  of  the  grant  for  national 
education.  In  the  main  they  are  a  rural  force,  but 
they  are  extended  to  the  cities  of  Belfast,  Cork, 
and  Londonderry.  In  country  places  individual  con- 
stables look  bloated  and  patrols  have  an  easy-going 
air.  One  comes  to  regard  the  Constabulary  as  a 
rural  poUce  \\ith  Uttle  to  do.  But  let  us  go  into 
Connemara  and  enter  a  police  hut  in  a  lonely  place. 
The  constables  are  probably  idle  and  unbuttoned, 
but  there  are  rifles  and  bayonets  to  hand,  and  the 
hut  has  the  position  of  a  blockhouse. 

The  life  of  Ireland  has  been  forced  back  on  the 
land,  and  the  most  powerful  of  Irish  efforts  has  been 
directed  to  the  liberation  of  the  land  in  the  interest 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  153 

of  the  majority.  Against  all  forms  of  agrarian 
agitation  stand  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary  with 
their  rifles  and  bayonets,  their  drill  and  revolver 
practice.  Why  does  Murty  Flynn  join  a  force  that 
stands  against  the  interests  and  passions  of  his  class  ? 
There  is  the  bribe  of  a  livelihood,  and  the  funda- 
mental muddle  of  the  human  mind  prevents  him  from 
seeing  the  conflict  in  clear  terms.  They  tell  of  a 
constable  who  had  to  assist  at  the  eviction  of  his 
father,  and  Murty  himself  knows  of  a  recruit,  sent 
down  wdth  an  extra  levy  to  the  County  Clare,  who 
found  himself  guarding  a  rancher's  cattle  against  his 
father's  hazel  stick.  The  direct  conflict  rarely  occurs. 
Murty's  father  has  four  sons.  One  of  them  will 
inherit  the  farm,  and  another  may  obtain  the  means 
of  getting  some  land.  For  the  rest  there  is  emigra- 
tion or  casual  labour.  Murty  is  not  studious  enough 
to  become  a  teacher,  nor  has  he  enough  apphcation 
to  succeed  as  a  shopkeeper.  He  is  a  big,  healthy 
lad,  with  a  fair  intelligence  and  a  fondness  for  out- 
door life.  He  offers  himself  to  the  Constabulary. 
There  are  many  applications,  but  Murty  obtains  a 
place,  and  his  people  are  as  glad  as  if  they  had  got 
two  acres  of  land. 

Constable  IMurty  Flynn  begins  with  a  renumera- 
tion  exceeding  that  of  the  assistant  teacher  in  the 
local  school.  With  twenty-one  shillings  a  week, 
he  has  various  allowances,  and  is  lodged  in  the 
barrack  at  a  slight  charge.  Promotion  is  almost 
inevitable,  as  there  are  1859  sergeants  and  451 
acting-sergeants  to  8380  constables.  He  is  sure 
of  a  pension,  and  is  under  no  necessity  of  saving. 
There  are  three  Constabulary  men  in  the  station — 


154  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

an  easy-going  sergeant  with  a  wife  and  family, 
Murty  Flynn,  and  another  constable.  His  day  is 
really  idle.  He  goes  on  parade  at  9  a.m.,  when  there 
is  elementary  drill,  then  for  a  while  the  three  sit  in 
the  station  smoking,  going  over  the  rules  of  the 
Constabulary  and  the  Acts  of  Parhament  governing 
the  action  of  the  police.  Two  go  on  patrol  at  11  a.m. 
— that  is  to  say,  they  stroll  through  the  country  for 
a  couple  of  hours.  They  attend  the  arrival  and 
departure  of  the  Dubhn  trains,  secure  the  newspapers, 
and  read  them  on  their  way  back.  There  are  more 
patrols  in  the  evening,  and  each  constable  has  to  put 
in  six  hours  per  day  in  outdoor  duty.  Sometimes  the 
constable  has  to  collect  statistics  for  the  Department 
of  Agriculture,  and  some  writing  has  to  be  done. 
Murty  Flynn  is  well  content  with  the  life.  He  knows 
in  the  force  men  who  are  good  Irishmen,  good 
Catholics,  and  good  citizens.  After  seven  years  he 
can  obtain  permission  to  marry,  and  many  good- 
looking  girls  would  be  glad  to  wed  a  man  who  can 
take  them  away  from  the  hardship  of  the  farm — 
a  man  of  assured  position,  moreover,  with  a  pension, 
who  need  not  make  himself  anxious  about  a  dowry. 
Murty's  comrade  intends  to  remain  single  for  the 
next  twenty  years  ;  then  he  can  retire  wdth  a  pension 
of  at  least  £42  per  annum,  when  he  intends  to  marry 
a  girl  with  a  dowry  and  set  up  a  shop. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  155 

VI 

The  Fiddler  at  Home 

I  saw  the  fiddler  in  a  little  Cavan  town ;  he  was 
playing  a  rollicking  tune  known  in  that  part  of  the 
country  as  "  Tlie  Swallow's  Tail  "  ;  he  put  the  bow 
across  the  strings  Ungeringly,  and  his  head  went 
with  the  movement  of  his  hand.  The  musician  was 
a  young  man  under  forty,  with  a  humorous  but 
delicate  face.  He  was  lame.  After  "  The  Swallow's 
Tail  "  he  struck  up  a  fine  tune,  a  tune  that  had  in 
it  depth,  gaiety,  and  pride.  The  tune  and  the 
musician's  way  of  playing  it  attracted  me,  and  when 
I  had  an  opportunity  I  talked  with  the  fiddler.  His 
name  was  Bartley  Ryan,  and  we  had  some  friends 
in  common.  Bartley  was  not  really  a  man  of  the 
roads.  He  was  a  local  musician  settled  in  a  house 
not  far  from  the  town.  He  asked  me  to  visit  him, 
and  on  a  fine  July  evening  I  went  to  make  my  celidh 
in  the  musician's  house.  His  house  was  on  the  rise 
of  the  country.  A  steep  road  went  past  the  chapel 
and  up  to  the  few  houses  that  neighboured  Bartley's. 
Above  the  musician's  one  could  have  three  counties 
in  prospect — Cavan,  Leitrim,  Longford.  One  could 
look  to  the  hills  in  Leitrim  and  to  the  Moat  of  Granard 
in  Longford,  and  the  great  evening  space  of  bog 
and  field  and  lake  was  the  Valley  of  Breffni,  the  scene 
celebrated  in  Moore's  song  "  The  Valley  lay  Smiling 
before  Me."  When  I  came  down  from  the  rise  I 
found  Bartley  at  his  door  and  he  brought  me  into  the 
cabin,  a  one-roomed  house  with  a  window  the  size 


156  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

of  a  dinner-plate.  There  was  the  hearth  with  stools 
about  it,  a  bed  in  a  recess  of  the  wall,  a  larger  bed 
at  the  other  side,  a  table  and  chairs.  The  place 
had  the  narrowness  of  a  rabbit-hutch,  but  the  people 
were  no  more  confined  than  the  chickens  in  the  nest. 
Beyond  the  threshold  there  was  space  enough. 

Bartley's  wife  moved  about  to  get  supper  for  us  ; 
she  was  a  silent,  gaunt  woman,  and  her  size  made  the 
interior  seem  cramped.  In  the  chimney  recess  sat 
another  visitor ;  he  rose  up  and  welcomed  me  when 
I  came  in  and  then  returned  to  his  seat.  There  was  a 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  his  hat  was  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  he  kept  a  tight  grip  on  an  ash-plant.  He 
had  been  to  the  fair,  and  good  spirits  were  in  him. 
He  was  drunk,  but  very  shrewdly  drunk.  He 
expressed  himself  in  winks,  nods,  gestures,  and  made 
no  audible  remark  until  a  cup  of  tea  had  dissipated 
the  deadness  of  the  drink  within  him.  I  remember 
him  well,  a  tough  old  fellow,  with  what  they  call 
"  the  cordial  eye."  He  kept  a  shrewd  possession 
of  his  hat,  his  stick,  and  his  tongue. 

Bartley  played  over  the  tune  that  had  attracted 
me,  and  again  I  enjoyed  the  inspired  movement 
that  had  so  much  gaiety  and  so  much  pride.  He 
knew  the  tune  as  "  The  Royal  Blackbird." 

While  the  fiddle  was  playing  a  young  girl  stole  in 
and  seated  herself  on  the  bed.  She  was  the  fiddler's 
child,  a  girl  of  sixteen,  and  she  remained  shy  and  aloof. 
I  do  not  know  if  Bridget  had  good  looks,  but  she 
brought  with  her  a  part  of  beauty,  a  grace  that  was 
like  the  grace  of  a  fawn  or  some  other  wild,  ungrown 
thing. 

In  his  childhood  Bartley  had  been  lamed  by  an 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  157 

accident.  His  people  followed  the  business  of  the 
road,  deahng  in  eggs  and  fowl,  and  for  a  while  the 
lame  youth  followed  the  trade,  but  he  was  never  a 
success  in  the  business  of  buying  and  selhng.  They 
say  that  at  one  time  he  had  a  pony  and  car  on  the 
road,  but  the  destiny  that  makes  a  poet  by  spoihng 
a  bread-winner  kept  up  with  Bartley.  His  horse 
became  disabled  and  his  capital  disappeared.  Then 
he  took  out  his  fiddle  and  played  at  the  markets. 
He  makes  money  by  his  fiddle,  playing  sometimes  in 
the  towns  and  sometimes  at  weddings  and  festivities. 
He  is  well  hked  for  his  music  and  for  his  gentle  and 
humorous  nature.  I  was  told  that  one  of  the  f aimers 
paid  in  Bartley's  rent  with  his  own.  This  seemed 
to  me  an  incredible  piece  of  altruism  on  the  part 
of  an  Irish  farmer,  but  I  was  assured  of  the  fact. 
Bartley's  rent  is  very  httle,  and  might  not  be  missed 
by  a  farmer  in  good  circumstances.  And  who  is 
Bartley's  patron  ?  He  is  none  other  than  the  man 
who  sat  in  the  chimney  recess  the  night  of  my  visit, 
our  friend  with  the  implicating  eye-Hd  and  the  tight 
grip  on  the  stick. 

Bartley's  wife  gave  us  tea,  and  afterwards  we 
talked  of  the  traditions  of  the  place.  I  was  anxious 
to  get  traces  of  a  poet  of  the  locahty,  a  man  named 
MacBrady,  who  wrote  in  Irish  about  a  century  ago. 
Bartley  had  heard  of  MacBrady,  but  for  a  full  account 
of  the  poet  he  referred  me  to  the  man  in  the  chimney 
recess.  "  I'll  tell  you  about  MacBrady,"  said  our 
friend,  who  was  now  articulate.  He  took  the  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth  and  made  this  statement.  Bartley 
had  heard  it  before,  but  he  followed  the  narrative 
with  the  deepest  interest. 


158  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  The  house  I'm  Hving  in  now  was  a  pubhc-house 
in  my  grandfather's  time.  When  my  father  was  a 
Uttle  fellow  the  poet  came  into  the  house.  He  called 
for  two  quarts  of  whisky  (whisky  was  cheap  then). 
He  filled  the  first  quart  into  a  noggin  and  mixed 
oaten  meal  with  it.  Made  porridge  of  it  and  ate  it 
with  a  spoon.  Then  he  drank  the  other  quart.  He 
made  the  poem  after  that." 

"  There  you  are  now,"  said  Bartley.  "  He  made 
the  poem  after  that." 

"  I  had  that  from  them  who  knew,"  added  my 
informant  with  a  strong  conviction  of  the  importance 
of  his  information. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  of  the  poem  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  bit  of  me  knows." 

Some  more  tunes  were  played  for  me  and  then  I 
went  away.  I  remember  the  people  as  gentle,  kindly, 
and  friendly,  and  I  remember  the  httle  cabin  as  one 
of  the  most  charming  houses  I  was  ever  in. 


VII 

Bartley  Mulstay  is  a  poet :  therefore  in  the  opinion 
of  the  country  he  is  a  person  to  be  conciliated.  Here 
they  have  the  old  story-teller's  conception  of  the 
man  of  words  :  he  is  a  satirist  primarily  and  his 
effusions  inspired  by  hatred  and  contempt  can 
inflict  positive  injury.  A  man  named  Hamilton 
who  lived  near  the  place  had  the  reputation  for  keep- 
ing a  good  glass  of  whisky  for  the  carters  who  came 
to   his   place.     Bartley    called,    and,    in   accordance 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  159 

with  the  privileges  of  the  poets,  he  demanded  refresh- 
ment. The  servant,  not  knowing  the  man,  handed 
him  a  mug  of  buttermilk.  He  drank  it  and  went 
down  the  road  highly  incensed.  Now  Hamilton  was 
writing  in  his  office  ;  he  saw  the  poet  pass  and  he 
guessed  the  disaster.  "  What  did  you  give  that 
man  ?  "  said  he  to  the  servant.  "  Buttermilk," 
said  she.  "  Oh,  murder,"  said  Hamilton,  "  we're 
all  destroyed."  He  took  the  bottle  and  glass  in  his 
hand  and  ran  after  Bartley.  "  I  won't  take  it," 
said  the  unrelenting  poet.  "  I'll  take  nothing  from 
you  until  I've  put  out  what's  in  my  mouth."  "  Don't 
put  it  out,"  said  Hamilton.  "  I  must  put  out  what's 
in  my  mouth  to  say."  "  Put  it  out  then,  but  don't 
let  it  be  of  much  harm  to  me."  Thereupon  Bartley 
said  the  rann  "  before  he  had  put  the  garlic  into  it." 
He  never  told  it  to  the  people  because  he  did  not 
want  it  remembered,  and,  until  Hamilton  died,  he 
and  Bartley  were  friends. 

I  was  to  spend  the  night  in  Bartley's,  and  the  next 
day  the  poet  himself  was  to  accompany  me  to  the 
market  of  Clooney.  I  remember  that  a  white  calf 
of  a  day  old  was  on  the  floor  when  I  went  into  his 
house,  and  that  a  black-eyed  girl,  Bartley's  daughter, 
was  seated  in  the  chimney  corner,  a  fiddle  in  her 
hands.  Bartley's  wife,  an  easy  fat  and  placid 
woman,  came  down  from  the  sleeping-room  that  was 
aloft  and  welcomed  me.  Bartley  seated  in  his 
backed  chair  was  somewhat  reserved.  When  he 
broke  silence  he  was  more  incUned  to  talk  of  poUtics 
and  philosophy  than  of  poetry.  He  had  been  shown 
a  book  in  which  it  was  written  that  everything  that 
happened,  to  the  smoking  of  a  pipe,  was  ordained 


160  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

and  laid  down  for  a  man.  He  intimated  that  he 
would  give  many  volumes  of  the  Hves  of  the  saints 
to  possess  that  book.  "  Julia  would  read  it  for 
me,"  said  he,  "  for  lately  I'm  indisposed  for  reading." 
Bartley  was  really  illiterate,  but  he  was  not  proud 
of  that  distinction.  The  people  say  that  when  the 
statement  about  their  land  purchase  came,  Bartley 
got  told  of  it,  and  had  it  read  to  him.  Then,  with 
the  document  in  his  hand  he  announced  its  contents 
to  the  people.  They  say  that  he  deHvered  the 
terms  correctly  although  he  held  the  paper  upside 
down.  I  found  that  Bartley  was  pessimistic  about 
Home  Rule.  He  maintained  that  Ireland  could 
never  succeed  because  of  her  treatment  of  Parnell — 
a  man,  he  said,  who  was  mentioned  in  the  prophecies. 
O'Connell,  too,  was  in  the  prophecies,  for  was  it  not 
said  of  him  : — 

"  This  is  Daniel  O'Connell  the  great  Liberator, 
The  descendant  of  Gaedhal  of  the  Scythian  line  ; 
The  Chronicles  of  Fame  his  worth  have  recorded, 
From  earliest  history  down  to  the  present  time." 

To  the  English  Government  Bartley  Mulstay  would 
say  two  Unes  that  were  given  in  the  Ancient  Books  : — 

**  At  the  Battle  of  Aughrim  you  brought  away  our  bone, 

^'^  You  took  the  marrow  out  of  it,  but  we  want  the  scrapings  home." 

An  admirable  resume  of  the  Financial  Relations 
between  Ireland  and  Great  Britain  ! 

We  came  to  poetry  and  romance  in  this  way.  I 
used  the  phrase  "  dangerous  Breffni "  ;  and  "  Is  that 
in  the  books  ?  "  Bartley  asked.  1  said  that  "  Breffne 
Baoghlaigh,"  "  dangerous  Breffni,"  is  used  in  an 
Ossianic  ballad,  that  is,  in  a  poem  about  Finn  Mac- 


A   SUMMER    NKJUT    I.N    HALLVCA.STLE. 
(From  an  oil  sketch  by  Jack  B.  Yeats.) 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  161 

Cumhal.  Bartley  said  that  he  disremembered  (he  could 
never  have  known)  that  particular  poem.  He  asked 
me  for  the  story.  Now  the  story  related  in  that 
terse  ballad  is  involved  and  I  could  not  well  remember 
it,  but,  as  it  happened,  I  had  in  my  pocket  an  early 
edition  of  MacPherson's  "  Ossian's  Poems  translated 
by  James  MacPherson,  Esq.,  with  critical  Disserta- 
tions on  the  Poems  of  Ossian  and  on  the  JEra  of 
Ossian."  I  had  bought  it  off  a  Dublin  book-barrow 
for  the  amusement  of  reading  the  symmetrical 
pseudo -history  that  was  set  forth  in  lengthy  pre- 
faces. Now  I  rejoiced  in  my  possession  of  "  Ossian's 
Poems,"  for  here  was  an  opportunity  of  bringing 
MacPherson's  apocrypha  to  those  who  had  lately 
been  the  custodians  of  the  Ossianic  tales  and  poems. 
After  this,  I  thought,  some  traveller  will  find  amongst 
the  Midland  peasantry  the  tale  of  Fingal.  But 
interest  in  MacPherson  is  dead,  and  the  discovery 
will  create  no  controversy.  However,  a  fit  audience 
was  before  me,  and  a  famous  book  was  in  my  hand. 
I  began.  The  misty  figures  and  the  voluminous 
rhetoric  are  very  different  from  the  terse  and  vivid 
poetry  of  the  original  documents.^ 

MacPherson's  is  eighteenth- century  oratory.  But 
eighteenth-century  oratory  was  just  the  stuff  for  my 
audience.  "  It  was  then  that  Gaul,  the  Son  of  Morni,^ 
stood  Hke  a  rock  in  the  night.  His  spear  is  glittering 
to  the  stars  ;  his  voice  like  many  streams.  '  Son 
of    the   battle,'    cried   the   Chief,   '  0    Fingal,   King 

^  See  "  Dunaire  Finn,''  the  "  Poem  book  of  Finn/'  in  the  Irish 
Text  Society's  publications. 

2  Goll,  son   of  Morna,  Bartley   knew  this  name,  but   he   did    not 
recognise  Finn  MacCumhal  as  Fingal. 
L 


162  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

of  Shells  !  let  the  bards  of  many  songs  soothe  Erin's 
friends  to  rest.  And,  Fingal,  sheath  thy  sword  of 
death,  and  let  thy  people  fight.  We  ^vithe^  away 
without  our  fame,  for  our  king  is  the  only  breaker 
of  shields.  WTien  morning  rises  on  our  hills,  behold 
at  a  distance  our  deeds.  Let  Lochlin  feel  the  sword 
of  Morni's  son,  that  bards  may  sing  of  me.  Such 
was  the  custom  heretofore  of  Fingal's  noble  race. 
Such  was  thine  own,  thou  King  of  swords  in  battles 
of  the  spear.' " 

A  young  man  who  had  a  sack  across  his  back 
had  come  into  the  house.  Beside  the  dresser  and  in 
the  shadow  he  and  Julia  stood.  "'0  Son  of  Morni,' 
Fingal  repUed,  "  I  glory  in  thy  fame.  Fight ;  but 
my  spear  shall  be  near  to  aid  thee  in  the  midst  of 
danger.  Raise,  raise  the  voice,  sons  of  the  song, 
and  lull  me  into  rest.  Here  will  Fingal  lie  amidst 
the  wind  of  night.  And  if  thou,  Agandecca,  art 
near,  among  the  children  of  thy  land,  if  thou  sittest 
on  a  blast  of  wind  among  the  high-shrouded  masts 
of  LochHn,  come  to  my  dreams,  my  fair  one,  and 
show  thy  bright  face  to  my  soul.' " 

"  It's  the  best  I  ever  heard,"  said  Bartley.  "  It 
is,  in  truth,"  said  the  young  man.  "  But  is  there 
nothing  in  it  about  the  young  women,"  said  JuHa. 
I  looked  for  a  phrase.  "  Deugala  was  the  spouse  of 
Cairbar,  Chief  of  the  plains  of  Ullin.  She  was  covered 
with  the  light  of  beauty,  but  her  heart  was  the  house 
of  pride."  "  That's  what  the  lads  do  be  saying 
about  Julia,"  said  the  young  man.  "  Often  have 
I  fought,  and  often  won  at  the  battle  of  the  spears. 
But  blind,  and  tearful  and  forlorn,  I  now  walk  mth 
little  men.      0  Fingal,  with  thy  race  of  battle,  I 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  163 

now  behold  thee  not.  The  wild  roes  feed  upon  the 
green  tomb  of  the  mighty  king  of  Morven  !  Blest 
be  thy  soul,  thou  king  of  swords,  thou  most  renowned 
on  the  Hills  of  Cona."  "  Amen  to  that,"  said  Bartley, 
"  blind  and  forlorn  he  walks  with  mean  little  men." 
"  It's  my  own  case,  bedad.  Phil,  you  might  bring 
out  what  you  have  in  the  bag."  Now,  one  of  the 
things  that  was  in  Phil's  bag  was  a  small  jar.  Its 
contents  were  poteen,  they  told  me.  I  took  a  dram 
out  of  a  cup,  and  I  heard  myself  repeat : — 

"  The  mUk  and  the  ale  are  drunk  every  drop, 
And  a  dram  won't  stop  our  thirst  this  night." 

"There's  many's  the  good  poem  in  the  book  that 
came  out  of,"  said  I. 

"  Come,  Son  of  my  Soul,  and  drain  the  cup, 
You'll  get  no  sup  when  this  life  is  past." 

"Yes,"  said  I,  "it's  a  good  song  that  I'm  saying. 
It  goes  like  this  : — 

'  The  yellow  bittern  that  never  broke  out 
In  a  drinking  bout  might  as  well  get  drunk. 
For  his  bones  are  thrown  on  a  barren  stone, 
Where  he  lived  alone  like  a  hermit  monk.'  " 

"  Bartley  Mulstay,"  said  I,  "you're  a  satirist.  I  know 
your  ranns.  Do  you  remember  the  person  who  lived 
near  my  grandfather's,  the  man  who  was  so  proud 
of  his  apple  garden  ?  He  brought  you  through  it 
one  day,  but  he  never  offered  you  any  of  its  produce ; 
and  when  he  turned  you  out  on  the  road,  he  locked 
the  gate  behind  you.  You  have  made  that  man  to 
be  remembered,"  said  I. 


164  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  0  grief  that  Ned  in  Eden  did  not  stand, 
He'd  hinder  Eve  to  break  the  Lord's  command ; 
If  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  was  watched  like  these, 
Each  man  might  live  in  peace  and  die  at  ease." 

Isn't  that  it,  Bartley  Mulstay  ?  Then  there  was 
the  epitaph  you  made  for  that  old  hedonist  Flavian 
Ward.  When  the  new  parish  priest  saw  the  in- 
scription upon  the  tombstone,  he  ordered  a  mason 
to  cut  it  away.  But  the  clan  of  the  Wards  resisted 
the  revisers,  and  your  inscription  remains  to  this 
day.     I've  seen  it  myself,  Bartley  Mulstay. 

"  But,  Bartley,  my  man,"  said  I,  "  we  fear  that 
you  have  been  intimidated  by  the  trouble  made 
about  old  Flavian's  tombstone.  Else  why  have  you 
put  such  a  conventional  sentiment  into  your  own 
epitaph.  It's  known  to  the  people,  and,  believe  me, 
Bartley,"  said  I,  "  it  doesn't  do  your  life  sufficient 
credit : 

"  Remember,  man,  as  you  pass  by, 
As  you  are  now,  so  once  was  I. 
As  I  am  now,  so  will  you  be 
Prepare  for  death  and  follow  me." 

"  I  looked  for  something  more  striking,  Bartley," 
said  I. 

The  woman  of  the  house  bade  us  good-night  and 
went  aloft.  "  It's  a  rabbit's  rest  she'll  have,"  said 
Bartley,  "  for  in  a  while  she'll  have  to  put  us  on  the 
road  for  Clooney."  "  We'U  keep  the  talk  up  until 
she  comes  back,"  said  I.  "I  can  repeat  poems 
against  any  man  in  Breffni.  And,  Bartley  Mulstay," 
said  I,  "  you'll  have  to  tell  us  the  rann  yoii  made 
upon  the  black-mouthed  man  of  the  Hamiltons." 
"  No,"  said  Bartley,  "  there's  a  promise  I  made  at 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  165 

confession — not  to  tell  that  rann  to  any  but  the  man 
that  can  put  a  poem  of  his  own  composing  beside." 
"  Then,"  said  I,  "  we'll  hear  the  rann,  for,  like 
Finn,  I  can  prove  my  poetry."  Thereupon  I  recited 
a  ballad.  There  was  alloy  in  the  metal  I  tendered. 
The  ballad  was  not  altogether  my  own.  I  had  made 
it  up  out  of  the  remains  of  a  political  song  that  was 
known  a  generation  ago  in  another  county.  My 
effort  had  a  striking  success.  When  it  was  finished, 
and  when  congratulations  were  over,  Bartley  sat 
cogitating  for  a  while.  Then  said  he  to  the  young 
man,  "  Phil,  are  you  doing  any  courtin'  these  times  ?  " 
"  Phil  and  me's  going  out  to  look  at  the  cow,"  said 
Julia.  She  put  the  shawl  across  her  head  and  went 
out  of  the  door :  Phil  stepped  after  her.  "  After 
I  composed  the  rann,"  said  Bartley  Mulstay,  "  I 
made  a  song  praising  Hamilton.  That  drew  the 
venom  out  of  it."  He  sat  still  for  a  while.  Then  he 
held  up  a  shut  fist  to  the  beam  of  his  roof,  and,  like 
a  man  taking  the  oath,  he  repeated  the  rann  : — 

"  May  a  messenger  come  from  the  high  place  of  God, 
To  bear  up  your  soul  to  a  throne — 
But  a  robber  be  robbing  him  on  his  way  back, 
And  your  fall  be  as  dead  as  a  stone. 

May  your  tables  be  laden  with  gold  and  with  jewels, 
And  your  hands  be  upon  them  for  proof, 
When  the  Devil  whips  in  by  your  beggarly  door. 
And  tears  your  red  soul  through  the  roof." 

"  It  didn't  do  him  any  harm,"  said  Bartley,  "  no 
harm  at  all.  That  was  on  account  of  the  mildness 
and  goodness  I  put  in  the  other  rann,  and  because 
I  kept  it  from  the  mouths  of  his  enemies." 


166  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

The  others,  when  they  came  in,  asked  me  to 
repeat  my  ballad.  I  recited  it  again.  Then  they 
all  questioned  me  about  the  personages  who  were 
figured  as  birds.  "  The  Kerry  Cock,"  was,  of  course, 
O'Connell.  But  who  were  the  others — the  black- 
bird, the  hawk,  the  wild-duck,  the  lark.  They  were 
the  offspring  of  my  invention  :  they  were  in  the  air 
Uke  the  birds  themselves  :  I  could  not  reduce  them 
to  newspaper  fact.  Nevertheless  I  ransacked  my 
historical  memory,  and  in  the  end  I  constructed  a 
consistent  comment.  Phil  said  that  the  ballad 
should  be  upon  the  roads.  Bartley  Mulstay  said  that 
he  would  stand  with  his  bare  feet  in  the  snow  to 
hear  it  sung.  He  said  he  would  teach  it  to  the 
ballad -singers.  Maybe  he  did.  But  I  feel  bound 
to  confess  that  I  have  never  heard  it  upon  the  roads. 
And  now  I  shall  set  it  here,  my  one  contribution  to 
the  popular  hterature  of  my  county. 


VIII 

The  Birds  that  left  the  Cage 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  disturb  the  public  peace, 
But  I  wish  to  sing  about  some  birds  that's  in  a  certain 

place  : 
Find  them  out  if  you  can  ;  they  are  neither  fools  nor 

knaves, 
But  birds  that's  at  their  liberty,  that  scorn  to  be 

slaves. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  167 

And  we're  all  singing, 
Our  cause  triumphant  springing, 
Our  ears  with  peace  are  ringing. 
Since  my  birds  they  left  the  Cage. 

I  mean  to  tell  their  titles,  but  their  names  I  won't 

explain  : 
They  feed  upon  no  corn,  but  what's  of  the  true  grain  : 
They  won't  be  caught  by  chaff  nor  by  salt  upon  the 

tail, 
Nor  frightened  by  a  clappers,  and  their  notes  will 

never  fail. 

And  we're  all  singing. 
Our  cause  triumphant  springing. 
Our  ears  with  peace  are  ringing. 
Since  my  birds  they  left  the  Cage. 

The  first  of  my  birds  is  the  leader  of  the  flock, 
His  voice  is  full  of  clangour,  for  he  is  my  Kerry  cock. 
0,  many  is  the  dung-hill  my  cock  has  trodden  down, 
And  when  he  claps  his  wings  it's  with  fear  he  makes 
them  frown. 

And  we're  all  singing. 
Our  cause  triumphant  springing, 
Our  ears  with  peace  are  ringing. 
Since  my  birds  they  left  the  Cage. 

There's  another  in  the  tribe,  and  of  him  I'll  say  a 

word  : 
He's  known  where  he  flies  for  my  true  and  brave 

blackbird  : 


168  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

His  nest  is  strong  and  wide,  and  it's  plain  for  all  to 

see 
His   youngsters   soon   are   flushed   and  their   cry   is 

"  Liberty." 

And  we're  all  singing, 
Our  cause  triumphant  springing. 
Our  ears  with  peace  are  ringing, 
Since  my  birds  they  left  the  Cage. 

I  have  another  bird  :   he  has  neither  song  nor  call, 
But  when  he  takes  his  flight,  he  puts  silence  on  them 

all. 
In  the  middle  of  the  wood,  you  will  hear  them  scream 

and  cry 
When  my  hawk  upon  the  bough  shows  his  young 

to  pounce  and  fly. 

And  we're  all  singing. 
Our  cause  triumphant  springing. 
Our  ears  with  peace  are  ringing, 
Since  my  birds  they  left  the  Cage. 

There's  another  of  them  loose  :  he  has  for  his  domain 
The  lakes  and  skies  of  Ireland  and  Ireland  round 

again. 
He  is  my  wild-duck  free,  and  no  fox  can  snatch  at 

him. 
For  he's  a  wary  bird,  and  he  can  both  dive  and  swim. 

And  we're  all  singing. 
Our  cause  triumphant  springing. 
Our  ears  with  peace  are  ringing. 
Since  my  birds  they  left  the  Cage. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  169 

I  have  another  bird  :    they  don't  like  him  on  the 

wing, 
For  when  he  rises  up  in  song  he's  sure  to  sing  : 
And  now  my  bully-boys,  give  your  voices  to  the  lark. 
He  loves  the  sod  of  Erinn  and  he  strives  against  the 

dark. 

And  we're  all  singing, 
Our  cause  triumphant  springing, 
Our  ears  with  peace  are  ringing. 
Since  my  birds  they  left  the  Cage. 


IX 

It  was  about  horses,  women,  and  music,  and,  in 
the  mouth  of  Maelshaughlinn,  the  narrative  had  the 
exuberance  of  the  fair  and  the  colour  of  a  unique 
exploit.  I  found  Maelshaughlinn  alone  in  the  house 
in  the  grey  dawn  succeeding  his  adventure.  "  This 
morning,"  he  said,  "  I'm  the  lonesome  poor  fellow 
without  father  or  mother,  a  girl's  promise,  nor  my 
own  little  horse."  He  closed  the  door  against  a 
reproachful  sunrise,  and,  sitting  on  a  little  three- 
legged  stool,  he  told  me  the  story. 

Penitentially  he  began  it,  but  he  expanded  with 
the  swelling  narrative.  "  This  time  last  week," 
said  Maelshaughlinn,  "  I  had  no  thought  of  parting 
with  my  own  little  horse.  The  English  wanted 
beasts  for  a  war,  and  the  farmers  about  here  were 
coining  money  out  of  horseflesh.  It  seemed  that 
the  buyers  were  under  a  pledge  not  to  refuse  any- 


170  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

thing  in  the  shape  of  a  horse,  and  so  the  farmers 
made  horses  out  of  the  sweepings  of  the  knackers' 
yards,  and  took  horses  out  of  ha'penny  hieky-bags 
and  sold  them  to  the  Enghsh.  Yesterday  morning 
I  took  out  my  own  Uttle  beast  and  faced  for  Arvach 
fair.  I  met  the  dealer  on  the  road.  He  was  an 
EngUshman,  and,  above  all  nations  on  the  face  of 
the  earth,  the  English  are  the  easiest  to  deal  with  in 
regard  of  horses.  I  tendered  him  the  price — it  was 
an  honest  price,  but  none  of  our  own  people  would 
have  taken  the  offer  in  any  reasonable  way.  An 
Irishman  would  have  cursed  into  his  hat,  so  that  he 
might  shake  the  curses  out  over  my  head.  The 
Englishman  took  on  to  consider  it,  and  my  heart 
went  threshing  my  ribs.  Then  he  gave  me  my  price, 
paid  me  in  hard,  weighty,  golden  sovereigns,  and 
went  away,  taking  the  little  horse  with  him. 

"  I  sat  down  on  the  side  of  a  ditch  to  take  a  breath. 
Now  you'll  say  that  I  ought  to  have  gone  back  to  the 
work,  and  I'll  say  that  I  agree  with  you.  But  no 
man  can  be  wise  at  all  times.  Anyway,  I  was  sitting 
on  a  ditch,  with  a  lark  singing  over  every  foot  of 
ground,  and  nothing  before  me  but  the  glory  of  the 
day.  A  girl  came  along  the  road,  and,  on  my  soul, 
I  never  saw  a  girl  walking  so  finely.  '  She'll  be  a 
head  above  every  girl  in  the  fair,"  said  I,  '  and  may 
God  keep  the  brightness  on  her  head.'  '  God  save 
you,  Maelshaughlinn,'  said  the  girl.  '  God  save  you, 
my  jewel,'  said  I.  I  stood  up  to  look  after  her, 
for  a  fine  woman  walking  finely  is  above  all  the  sights 
that  man  ever  saw.  Then  a  few  lads  passed,  whistling 
and  swinging  their  sticks.  '  God  give  you  a  good 
day,'  said  the  lads.     '  God  give  you  luck,  boys,'  said 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  171 

I.  And  there  was  I,  swinging  my  stick  after  the 
lads,  and  heading  for  the  fair. 

"  '  Never  go  into  a  fair  where  you've  no  business.' 
That's  an  oul'  saying  and  a  wise  saying,  but  never 
forget  that  neither  man  nor  immortal  can  be  wise  at 
all  times.  Satan  fell  from  Heaven,  Adam  was  cast 
out  of  Paradise,  and  even  your  uncle  broke  his  pledge. 

"  When  I  came  into  the  fair  there  was  a  fiddler 
playing  behind  a  tinker's  cart.  I  had  a  shilling  to 
spend  in  the  town,  and  so  I  went  into  Flynn's  and 
asked  for  a  cordial.  A  few  most  respectable  men 
came  in  then,  and  I  asked  them  to  take  a  treat  from 
me.  Well,  one  drank  and  another  drank,  and  then 
Rose  Heffernan  came  into  the  shop  with  her  brother. 
Young  Heffernan  sent  the  glasses  round,  and  then  I 
asked  Rose  to  take  a  glass  of  wine,  and  I  put  down 
a  sovereign  on  the  counter.  The  fiddler  was  coming 
down  the  street,  and  I  sent  a  young  lad  out  to  him 
with  silver.  I  stood  for  a  while  talking  with  Rose, 
and  I  heard  the  word  go  round  the  shop  concerning 
myself.  It  was  soon  settled  that  I  had  got  a  legacy. 
The  people  there  never  heard  of  any  legacies  except 
American  legacies,  and  so  they  put  my  fortune  down 
to  an  uncle  who  had  died,  they  thought,  in  the  States. 
Now  I  didn't  want  Rose  to  think  that  my  money 
was  a  common  legacy  out  of  the  States,  so  by  half- 
words  I  gave  them  to  miderstand  that  I  had  got  my 
fortune  out  of  Mexico.  Mind  you,  I  wasn't  far  out 
when  I  spoke  of  Mexico,  for  I  had  a  grand -uncle 
who  went  out  there,  and  his  picture  is  in  the  house 
this  present  minute. 

"  Well,  after  the  talk  of  a  Mexican  legacy  went 
round,  I  couldn't  take  any  treats  from  the  people, 


172  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

and  I  asked  everyone  to  drink  again.  I  think  the 
crowds  of  the  world  stood  before  Flynn's  counter. 
A  big  Connachtman  held  up  a  Mexican  dollar,  and 
I  took  it  out  of  his  hand  and  gave  it  to  Rose  Heffernan. 
I  paid  him  for  it,  too,  and  it  comes  into  my  mind  now 
that  I  paid  him  for  it  twice. 

"  There's  not,  on  the  track  of  the  sun,  a  place  to 
come  near  Arvach  on  the  day  of  a  fair.  A  man  came 
along  leading  a  black  horse,  and  the  size  of  the  horse 
and  the  eyes  of  the  horse  would  terrify  you.  There 
was  a  drift  of  sheep  going  by,  and  the  fleece  of  each 
was  worth  gold.  Tliere  were  tinkers  with  their  carts 
of  shining  tins,  as  ugly  and  quarrelsome  fellows 
as  ever  beat  each  other  to  death  in  a  ditch,  and  there 
were  the  pow^erful  men,  with  the  tight  mouths,  and 
the  eyes  that  could  judge  a  beast,  and  the  dark 
handsome  women  from  the  mountains.  To  crown 
all,  a  piper  came  into  the  town  by  the  other  end,  and 
his  music  was  enough  to  put  the  blood  like  a  mill- 
race  through  your  heart.  The  music  of  the  piper, 
I  think,  would  have  made  the  beasts  walk  out  of  the 
fair  on  their  hind  legs,  if  the  music  of  the  fiddler 
didn't  charm  them  to  be  still.  Grace  Kennedy 
and  Sheela  MoUoy  were  on  the  road,  and  Rose 
Heffernan  was  talking  to  them.  Grace  Kennedy 
has  the  best  wit  and  the  best  discourse  of  any  woman 
within  the  four' seas,  and  she  said  to  the  other  girls 
as  I  came  up,  '  Faith,  girls,  the  good  of  the  mission 
will  be  gone  from  us  since  Maelshaughlinn  came  into 
the  fair,  for  the  young  women  must  be  talking  about 
him  coming  home  from  the  sermon.'  Sheela  MoUoy 
has  the  softest  hair  and  the  softest  eyes  of  anything 
you  ever  saw.     She's  a  growing  girl  with  a  spice  of 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  173 

the  devil  in  her.  '  It's  not  the  best  manners,'  said 
I,  '  to  treat  girls  to  a  glass  across  the  counter,  but 
come  into  a  shop,'  said  I,  '  and  let  me  pay  for  your 
fancy.'  Well,  I  persuaded  them  to  come  into  a  shop, 
and  I  got  the  girls  to  make  Sheela  ask  for  a  net  for 
her  hair.  They  don't  sell  these  nets  less  than  by  the 
dozen,  so  I  bought  a  dozen  nets  for  Sheela's  hair. 
I  bought  ear-rings  and  brooches,  dream-books  and 
fortune-books,  buckles  and  combs,  and  I  thought 
I  had  spent  no  more  money  than  I'd  thank  you  for 
picking  up  off  the  floor.  A  tinker  woman  came  in 
and  offered  to  tell  the  girls  their  fortunes,  and  I  had 
to  cross  her  hand  with  silver. 

"  I  came  out  on  the  street  after  that,  and  took  a 
few  turns  through  the  fair.  The  noise  and  the  crowd 
were  getting  on  m}^  mind,  and  I  couldn't  think  with  any 
satisfaction,  so  I  went  into  Mrs  MoUoy's,  and  sat  for 
a  while  in  the  snug.  I  had  peace  and  quiet  there,  and 
I  began  to  plan  out  what  I  would  do  with  my  money. 
I  had  a  notion  of  going  into  Clooney  on  Tuesday,  and 
buying  a  few  sheep  to  put  on  my  little  fields,  and  of 
taking  a  good  craftsman  home  from  the  fair,  a  man 
who  could  put  the  fine  thatch  on  my  little  house.  I 
made  up  my  mind  to  have  the  doors  and  windows 
shining  with  paint,  to  plant  a  few  trees  before  the 
door,  and  to  have  a  growing  calf  going  before  the 
house.  In  a  while,  I  thought,  I  could  have  another 
little  horse  to  be  my  comfort  and  my  consolation.  I 
wasn't  drinking  anything  heavier  than  ginger  ale,  so 
I  thought  the  whole  thing  out  quietly.  After  a  while 
I  got  up,  bid  good-bye  to  Mrs  MoUoy,  and  stood  at  the 
door  to  watch  the  fair. 

"  There  was  a  man  just  before  me  with  the  pea  and 


174  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

thimble,  and  I  never  saw  a  trick-of-the-loop  with  less 
sense  of  the  game.  He  was  winning  money  right  and 
left,  but  that  was  because  the  young  fellows  were 
before  him  like  motherless  calves.  Just  to  expose 
the  man  I  put  down  a  few  pence  on  the  board.  In  a 
short  time  I  had  fleeced  my  showman.  He  took  up 
his  board  and  went  away,  leaving  me  shillings  the 
winner. 

"  I  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  pavement  wondering 
what  I  could  do  that  would  be  the  beating  of  the 
things  I  had  done  already.  By  this  time  the  fiddler 
and  the  piper  were  drawing  nigh  to  each  other,  and 
there  was  a  musician  to  the  right  of  me,  and  a 
musician  to  the  left  of  me.  I  sent  silver  to  each, 
and  told  them  to  cease  playing  as  I  had  something  to 
say.  I  got  up  on  a  cart  and  shook  my  hat  to  get 
silence.  I  said,  '  I'm  going  to  bid  the  musicians  play 
in  the  market  square,  and  the  man  who  gets  the  best 
worth  out  of  his  instrument  will  get  a  prize  from  me.' 
The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  my  mouth  than  men, 
women,  and  children  made  for  the  market  square  like 
two-year  olds  let  loose. 

"  You'd  like  the  looks  of  the  fiddler,  but  the  piper 
was  a  black  a'vis'd  fellow  that  kept  a  troop  of  tinkers 
about  him.  It  was  the  piper  who  said,  '  Master, 
what's  the  prize  to  be  ?  '  Before  I  had  time  to  think 
the  fiddler  was  up  and  talking.  '  He's  of  the  oul' 
ancient  race,'  said  the  fiddler, '  and  he'll  give  the  prizes 
that  the  Irish  nobility  gave  to  the  musicians — a  calf, 
the  finest  calf  in  the  fair,  a  white  calf,  with  skin  as 
soft  as  the  fine  mist  on  the  ground,  a  calf  that  gentle 
that  the  smoothest  field  under  him  would  look  as 
rough  as  a  bog.'     And  the  fiddler  was  that  lifted  out 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  175 

of  himself  that  he  nearly  leapt  over  a  cart.     Somebody 
pushed  in  a  young  calf,  and  then  I  sat  down  on  a 
stone,  for  there  was  no  use  in  saying  anything  or 
trying    to    hear    anything    after   that.     The    fiddler 
played  first,  and  I  was  nearly  taken  out  of  my  trouble 
when  I  heard  him,  for  he  was  a  real  man  of  art,  and 
he  played  as  if  he  were  playing  before  a  king,  with  the 
light  of  Heaven  on  his  face.     The  piper  was  spending 
his  silver  on  the  tinkers,  and  they  were  all  deep  in 
drink  when  he  began  to  play.     At  the  first  sound  of 
the  pipes  an  old  tinker-woman  fell  into  a  trance.     It 
was  powerful,  but  the  men  had  to  tie  him  up  with  a 
straw  rope,  else  the  horses  would  have  kicked  the 
slates  off  the  market-house  roof.     Nobody  was  quiet 
after  that.     There  was  a  thousand  men  before  me 
offering  to  sell  me  ten  thousand  calves,   each  calf 
whiter  than  the  one  before.     There  was  one  party 
round  the  fiddler  and  another  party  round  the  piper. 
I  think  it  was  the  fiddler  that  won  ;   anyway,  he  had 
the  strongest  backing,  for  they  hoisted  the  calf  on  to 
a  cart,  and  they  put  the  fiddler  beside  it,  and  the  two 
of  them  would  have  got  out  of  the  crowd,  only  the 
tinkers  cut  the  traces  of  the  yoke.     I  was  saved  by 
a  few  hardy  men,  who  carried  me  through  the  market- 
house  and  into  Flynn's  by  a  back  way,  and  there  I 
paid  for  the  calf. 

"  When  I  came  out  of  Flynn's  the  people  were 
going  home  quiet  enough.  I  got  a  lift  on  Fardor- 
rougha's  yoke,  and  everybody,  I  think,  wanted  me 
to  come  to  Clooney  on  Tuesday  next.  I  think  I'd 
have  got  out  of  Arvach  with  safety,  only  a  dead- 
drunk  tinker  wakened  up  and  knew  me,  and  he  gave 
a  yell  that  brought  the  piper  hot-foot  after  me.     First 


176  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

of  all  the  piper  cursed  me.  He  had  a  bad  tongue,  and 
he  put  on  me  the  blackest,  bitterest  curses  you  ever 
heard  in  your  life.  Then  he  lifted  up  the  pipes,  and 
he  gave  a  blast  that  went  through  me  like  a  spear  of 
ice. 

"  The  man  that  sold  me  the  calf  gave  me  a  luck- 
penny  back,  and  that's  all  the  money  I  brought  out 
of  Arvach  fair. 

"  Never  go  into  the  fair  where  you  have  no 
business." 


X 

I  am  with  big  farmers  and  district  councillors. 
Four  of  them  sat  near  me  :  we  are  in  Clooney,  in  the 
house  kept  by  Marcus  O'DriscoU,  and  in  the  room 
reserved  for  select  people.  I  sat  watching  the  street 
for  sight  of  Bartley  Mulstay  who  had  gone  through 
the  market  on  a  secret  mission.  The  four  who  were 
farmers  and  district  councillors  were  at  a  table 
between  me  and  the  window.  One  was  a  pachyder- 
matous man,  who  talked  continuously,  bearing  down 
the  others  by  weight  of  a  heavy  body  and  a  self- 
centred  mind.  His  face  had  been  cleared  by  a  semi- 
circular sweep  of  the  razor,  but  there  was  aftergrowth 
and  stubble  and  outlying  fences.  Next  to  him  was 
a  farmer  who  had  the  full  beard  of  a  Boer  general. 
At  the  head  of  the  table  was  a  short-nosed  man,  who 
had  a  quiet  voice,  and  opposite  the  pachydermatous 
man,  and  bearing  the  weight  of  his  argument,  was  a 
serious -minded  young  farmer  who  had  a  pale  forehead 
and  brick-coloured  hair.     "  Wool  is  up,"   said  the 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  177 

short-nosed  man.  The  pachydermatous  one  bore 
down  on  him. 

"  Indeed  it's  not  up." 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  shade  of  improvement.  Un- 
washed wool  at  elevenpence  a  pound." 

"  That's  less  than  the  rise  of  a  farthing  in  the 
pound.     That's  nothing." 

"  Well,  I  seemed  to  get  the  price  more  freely." 

"  You  only  thought  so.  Cattle  is  down  ten 
shillings  a  hundredweight.  Six  pounds  a  head  less 
than  last  year.  We'll  be  all  in  the  poorhouse.  I've 
bespoken  my  place.  I'm  first,  I  tell  you."  He  had 
the  habit  of  recurring  to  his  thought  and  expression 
again  and  again.  This  gave  the  impression  that 
there  was  power  and  significance  in  everything  he 
said.     "  Did  you  read  my  letter  in  The  Banner  ?  " 

"  I  saw  it,"  said  the  serious  young  man. 

"  I  tell  you  it's  great,"  said  the  pachydermatous 
man.  "  It's  the  best  they  ever  got.  '  With 
lamentations  I  write  and  send  one  and  sixpence  to 
the  testimonial  to  my  early  friend,  my  intermediate 
friend,  and  my  late  friend,  my  friend  in  need  and  my 
friend  indeed — the  intrepid  ideal  gladiator  of  our 
country  who  now  lies  incarcerated  in  a  prison  cell, 
for  the  pure  love  of  his  constituency,  and  who  is  ready 
to  reach  the  arm  of  friendship  to  his  enemies,  and 
fight  their  battle  if  they  only  say  they  will  ascend  the 
pedestal  of  justice.  Oh,  who  could  be  his  councillor  ! 
And  what  recompense  shall  be  made  him,  save  his 
own  counsel  and  soliloquy  who  came  by  predestina- 
tion to  be  the  pulveriser  of  ignominious  and  pusil- 
lanimous land  monopolists  who  stand  the  danger  of 
taking  the  d at  the  back  of  the  great  indomitable, 

M 


178  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

defiable,  and  indefatigable  '  F.  W.'s '  drumstick. 
Hoping  that  future  happiness  will  give  future  history, 
good  and  better  things  to  record  in  favour  of  the 
great  liberator.  I  am,  with  deference,  his,  yours,  etc' 
"  P.S. — Please  file  my  lines  that  my  friend  may 


He  was  hugely  delighted  with  this  horseplay  of 
language.  When  he  had  read  the  communication, 
he  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window,  and  illustrated 
before  our  humanity  an  enormous  dorsal  area.  "  I 
used  to  smoke  cigarettes,"  said  the  young  farmer,  "  but 
I  found  that  they  did  not  help  me  in  buying  or  sell- 
ing, so  I  smoked  no  more."  The  pachydermatous 
one  came  into  the  conversation,  causing,  as  it  were,'  a 
thousand-tons  displacement. 

"  I'll  tell  you  something  about  myself.  I  wouldn't 
smoke  a  cigarette — nor  a  cigar.  If  you  gave  me  a 
sixpenny  cigar  I'd  smoke  it,  and  after  that  I'd  fill  my 
pipe  and  burn  six  ounces  of  tobacco." 

"  It's  too  much,"  said  the  short-nosed  man. 

"  You  do  wrong,"  said  the  heavily-bearded  farmer. 

"  It  wouldn't  be  good  for  you,"  said  the  serious 
young  farmer. 

"  No  constitution  could  stand  it,"  said  the  victim. 
"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do.  When  I  go  to  bed  I  smoke  a 
full  ounce  of  tobacco.  I  leave  the  pipe  on  the  chimbley- 
piece  to  light  before  I  get  up."  "  Yes,"  said  he, 
"  I'm  killing  myself.  I  know  it."  He  appealed  to 
the  serious  young  man.  "  James,"  said  he,  "  you 
often  saw  me  at  the  fair  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning 
with  a  pipe  in  my  mouth." 

"  Indeed  I've  seen  it." 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  179 

"  At  five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  mind.  And  I'd  as 
lief  have  it  as  my  breakfast.  Are  you  going,  men  ? 
Get  me  a  couple  of  men  that  would  do  ditcliing  for 
me." 

"  Ditching's  heavy  work  at  this  time  of  the  year," 
said  the  serious  young  man. 

"  'Twould  drag  the  hearts  out  of  men  to  have  them 
working  in  ditches  with  the  soil  sticking  to  their 
shovels,"  said  the  heavily-bearded  man. 

"  I  want  to  put  the  place  right  before  I  go  to  the 
poorhouse.     Send  me  the  men,  and  I'll  feed  them. 

"  Fasting  and  prayers  are  good  for  the  sinner, 
But  the  man  at  work  has  need  of  his  dinner." 

The  others  went  out.  He  who  I  have  named  pachy- 
dermatous stuck  his  head  out  of  the  window  and  went 
on  burning  his  six  ounces  of  tobacco.  When  he  turned 
in,  a  genteel  dame  was  seated  at  the  table.  She  wore 
the  sort  of  shawl  that  goes  with  mittens  and  a  smell 
of  lavender.  How  did  it  come  that  she  was  in  Clooney 
on  a  market  day  ?  I  could  swear  that  she  was  from 
New  England,  and  that  her  ancestors  had  gone  out 
with  The  Mayflower. 

"  Any  objection,  ma'am,  to  smoking  ?  " 
She  babbled  without  any  stops.  "  Not  if  the 
tobacco  is  good.  My  father  always  smoked  Virginian 
tobacco,  and  my  mother  began  to  smoke  too  after 
being  years  with  him — not  a  pipe,  for  that  would  not 
be  considered  ladyhke  in  our  locahty,  but  a  seegar." 
He  thrust  out  his  lower  lip,  snorted,  and  turned  his 
back  on  her.  It  was  the  sneer  of  a  bull.  Then  came 
in  a  large  woman,  clothed  in  black,  with  round  and 
frightened   eyes.     A   depressed   man  was   with  her. 


180  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

She  had  just  identified  him  in  the  street.  They  were 
friends,  but  had  not  met  for  years.  She  looked  as  if 
she  kept  a  shop  in  a  prosperous  town.  The  man 
might  have  been  an  auctioneer  or  a  clerk  in  a  solicitor's 
office. 

"  So  you  buried  your  grannie  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Three  months  ago.  We  had  the  announcement 
in  all  the  papers." 

"  And  what  about  Sara  ?  " 

"  Sara's  in  England.  She  got  burnt — an  oil  stove. 
It's  not  known  whether  she's  marked  for  life.  Michael 
can't  travel  on  account  of  his  heart.  When  I  was 
going  to  Glasgow  he  came  to  the  train  to  see  me. 
He's  white.     He'll  be  handing  in  his  gun  soon." 

"  Do  you  hear  anything  from  Dunn's  now  ?  " 

"  I  wrote  to  them  when  they  got  the  legacy,  and 
I  had  one  letter." 

"  I  hear  they  aren't  a  bit  better  off  than  they  used 
to  be." 

"  A  mare  kicked  and  broke  two  of  her  hind  legs. 
The  bog  used  to  be  some  good  to  them.  But  the 
landlord  has  set  the  bog  to  the  tenants." 

"  And  Gracie — any  sign  ?  " 

"  Divil  a  sign.     And  she's  not  young  now." 

"  I  hear  James  is  sick." 

"  He's  always  sick.     The  poor  man  is  only  there." 

"  What  else  was  I  going  to  ask  you.  Did  Daniel 
give  much  of  a  fortune  with  Kate  ?  " 

"  No.     Not  nearly  as  much  as  was  reported." 

"  And  how  is  your  own  people — Owen,  Henry,  Sis." 

Then  our  host,  Marcus  O'DriscoU,  came  up  to  me. 
I  took  it  upon  myself  to  say  that  there  was  a  bad 
price  for  cattle. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  181 

"  Them  Dutch  countries  are  under-selHng  us  all," 
said  he.  "  There's  a  district  councillor  gone  out,  and 
I  told  him  last  October  that  he  would  get  no  more  than 
what  he  paid  for  them." 

"  Where  did  he  buy  ?  "  said  I. 

"  In  the  town  of  Ballina,  and  from  a  man  who  came 
from  near  Foxford. 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  saw  the  country  round  Foxford 
with  its  stretches  of  water  and  its  water-logged  fields. 

"  They  didn't  get  much  to  eat  near  Foxford," 
said  I. 

"  They  got  plenty  to  drink,"  said  jMarcus  O'DriscoU. 
He  permitted  himself  to  be  humorous.  "  There's  a 
deal  of  water  round  Lough  Coun." 

"  You  were  in  Mayo  then,"  said  I. 

"  I  was,"  said  he.  "  At  that  time  I  was  dealing 
in  the  produce  of  our  rivers." 

"  Salmon,"  said  I.  He  nodded  gravely.  I  went 
on  to  talk  of  the  salmon  of  the  Blackwater. 

"  I'll  tell  you  something,"  said  Marcus  O'DriscoU. 
I  felt  that  a  secret  was  being  imparted  to  me.  "  I 
know  a  man  who  is  paying  fifty  pounds  for  a  mile 
of  the  Blackwater,  and  be  it  known  to  you  it's  not 
worth  my  pipe."  I  mentioned  the  Shannon  at  Castle- 
connell.  "  Not  a  dozen  salmon  will  be  taken  between 
Castleconnell  and  Athlone  this  year,"  said  he.  "  I 
could  tell  you  a  river  that  has  more  salmon  in  it  than 
all  the  rivers  of  Ireland  put  together.  And,  further- 
more, I  could  tell  you  why  the  salmon  has  forsaken 
the  other  rivers  of  Ireland." 

But  my  friend  Farral  Gilroy  came  up  to  us.  Marcus 
O'DriscoU  saluted  him.     Then  he  went  away. 

"  There  goes  a  wise  man,"  said  I.     "  He  knows 


182  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  cattle  on  the  ridge  of  the  hills  and  the  salmon 
swimming  against  the  rivers.  And  he  can  tell  me 
why  the  salmon  has  forsaken  the  noble  streams  of 
Erinn." 

Farral  Gilroy  moved  me  out.  "  If  you  eat  a  beef- 
steak with  me,"  said  he,  "  I'll  tell  you  a  story  about 
Marcus  O'DriscoU." 


XI 

He  began  in  this  way.  He  said,  "  Martin  Fallon, 
my  uncle,  is  the  brother  of  Hugh  Fallon,  the  grazier. 
You  probably  know  Martin  Fallon  :  a  strong  farmer, 
and  a  man  of  cows.  I  have  known  my  uncle  for 
twenty-five  years.  In  the  course  of  a  quarter  of  a 
century  I  have  seen  only  one  variation  in  my  uncle's 
appearance.  To  all  appearance  his  clothes  are  always 
the  same  clothes,  and  his  beard  is  always  in  the  same 
stage  of  growth.  You  have  seen  him  at  the  fair, 
and  you  will  have  noticed  that  he  always  carries  the 
same  ash-plant,  that  his  coat  is  always  of  the  same 
blue-black  material,  that  his  waistcoat  is  of  corduroy, 
that  it  is  sleeved,  and  that  his  trousers  are  of  corduroy 
also.  One  morning  lately  I  awakened  in  my  uncle's 
house  in  Aughnalee.  As  my  faculties  were  slowly 
flowing  back  to  me  the  door  opened,  and  my  uncle 
entered  the  room  softly.  He  was  translated.  First 
of  all,  he  was  dressed  for  the  road.  He  carried  a 
stick ;  and  the  stick  even  was  changed  :  it  was  not 
the  familiar  ash-plant,  it  was  a  blackthorn,  and  it 
had  a  silver  band  near  the  top.  His  coat  was  of  a 
deeper  tint  of  blue,  and  of  a  more  grandiloquent  cut. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  18S 

His  waistcoat  was  black ;  it  was  cut  low,  and  showed 
a  wide  expanse  of  starched  shirt.  Below  the  shirt 
there  was  room  for  a  massive  chain  of  silver.  His 
trousers  hung  with  a  remarkable  perpendicularity ; 
and  such  was  the  condition  of  his  boots  that  I 
marvelled  that  I  had  not  been  awakened  by  the 
rubbing  and  the  accompanying  reverberations.  He 
was  shaved,  not  here  and  there  as  was  his  imme- 
morial custom,  but  with  a  clear  and  exhaustive  sweep. 
He  had  on  a  hat,  black,  high-crowned,  and  of  a  re- 
markable width  of  brim.  He  went  to  the  mirror 
and  surveyed  himself  from  various  points  of  view. 
He  took  off  his  hat  and  said,  '  In  the  name  of  God.' 
Then  he  went  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door  softly 
behind  him. 

"  Now,  my  uncle  could  not  be  making  preparations 
for  a  marriage,  for  that  excellent  woman,  my  aunt, 
is  still  in  being.  He  was  not  going  to  arrange  a 
match  for  either  of  his  sons — they  have  not  come  to  a 
marriageable  age — nor  was  he  going  to  take  a  daughter 
to  a  convent.  Why  then  this  laborious  transforma- 
tion ?  and  why  was  my  uncle  going  abroad  on  the 
first  clear  day,  and  the  potatoes  awaiting  spraying  ? 

"  The  mystery  drew  me  from  bed.  As  I  was  eating 
my  breakfast  my  aunt  conveyed  clues  by  many 
hints.  My  uncle  was  an  ambassador.  On  account 
of  his  silence  and  discretion  he  had  been  selected  to 
go  on  a  mission.  That  mission  was  to  the  house 
of  our  parish  priest.  The  mission  was  undertaken 
on  behalf  of  a  certain  young  man,  newly  returned 
from  America.  The  negotiation  on  which  my  uncle 
had  entered  would  be  long,  it  would  have  many 
stages,  its  ultimate  object,  however,  was  a  meeting 


184  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

between  the  priest's  niece  and  the  young  farmer, 
whose  name  was  Stephen  Geoghan.  Then  there 
would  be  a  conference  between  the  elders  with  a 
view  to  arranging  a  marriage. 

"  When  I  understood  the  situation,"  said  Farral 
Gilroy,  "  I  went  outside,  sat  on  a  ditch,  and  pictured 
to  myself  the  opening  negotiations.  My  uncle  enters 
to  Father  Gilmartin.  It  would  be  after  breakfast, 
and  the  priest  would  be  reading  a  Latin  tome. 
Father  Gilmartin  is  a  student  of  Aquinas.  He  has 
encouraged  the  co-operative  movement,  since  he 
discovered  in  the  Summa  the  metaphysic  of  co- 
operation. But  you  are  not  to  picture  the  priest 
as  a  worn  student ;  Father  Gilmartin  is  old  and 
heavy  ;  his  body  moves  slowly  ;  and  his  mind,  clear 
and  definite  as  it  is,  moves  slowly  also.  Imagine 
the  contact  of  the  two  minds  in  this  novel  and  com- 
plex subject.  In  the  terms  of  the  case  the  negotia- 
tions would  be  delicate,  the  terms  elusive.  And 
Father  Gilmartin  was  appallingly  deaf.  The  meeting, 
as  I  saw  it,  was  fundamental  as  opposed  to  accidental 
comedy. 

"  My  uncle  returned.  The  negotiations  had  been 
long  and  uncertain.  Miss  Casey,  Father  Gilmartin's 
niece,  was  going  back  to  Dublin  on  Wednesday  next ; 
but  a  meeting  between  herself  and  Mr  Geoghan  had 
been  arranged.  The  lady,  her  brother.  Father  Casey, 
and  Father  Gilmartin  would  pass  through  the  town 
of  Clooney  on  their  way  to  the  railway  station.  They 
intended  to  call  to  the  house  of  Marcus  O'Driscoll. 
Mr  O'Driscoll  was  a  close  friend  of  the  Geoghan's. 
Stephen  could  call  in  on  Wednesday,  and  thus  the 
parties   would  meet  informally   at  the  house   of   a 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  185 

mutual  friend.  The  plan  commended  itself  to  my 
aunt.  So  much  was  accomplished,  and  my  uncle's 
reputation  would  not  be  submitted  to  a  further 
strain.  The  affair  was  now  with  God  and  Marcus 
O'DriscoU.  Mr  Stephen  Geoghan  then  came  in. 
After  salutations  my  uncle  silently  produced  the 
whisky.  He  alluded  to  the  respectability  of  Miss 
Casey's  family,  to  the  numerous  priests  that  that 
family  had  produced,  to  the  fact  that  Miss  Casey 
was  related,  not  remotely,  to  a  bishop.  He  alluded 
in  guarded  terms  to  her  probable  dowry.  He  dwelt 
on  her  good  looks,  her  education  and  refinement. 
Thus  he  worked  up  to  the  triumph  of  his  own 
diplomacy.  My  uncle  left  down  the  glass  and  grasped 
Stephen  by  the  hand.  '  Be  at  Marcus  O'Driscoll's 
on  Wednesday,'  he  said,  '  and  there  you'll  meet  the 
young  lady,  with  her  uncle,  the  priest,  and  her  brother 
who  is  a  priest,  too.'  I  went  out  then  and  left  them 
to  their  conference.  I  saw  my  uncle  standing  at 
his  door  watching  Stephen  Geoghan  parting  of  the 
house  of  his  friend,  Marcus  O'DriscoU.  My  uncle 
had  not  yet  taken  off  his  official  garb.  There  was  a 
glow  of  satisfaction  about  the  whole  of  the  man. 
In  such  a  warm  glow  I  wish  to  leave  my  uncle.  You 
will  observe  that  our  family  comes  out  of  the  affair 
with  credit  and  with  an  enchanced  reputation. 

"  I  now  take  up  with  that  remarkable  friend, 
Marcus  O'DriscoU.  Fortunately  for  my  story  you 
know  him.  Otherwise  it  would  be  difficult  for  me 
to  shadow  forth  the  personality  of  Marcus  O'DriscoU, 
Marcus  of  Clooney.  I  would  have  to  discover  a 
language  at  once  exuberant  and  discreet.  You  re- 
member the  last  time  we  fell  in  with  Marcus ;  he  had 


186  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

been  unfolding  to  a  companion  a  scheme  of  agrarian 
reform  based  on  state  purchase,  and  he  went  back 
on  the  argument  for  our  benefit.  He  spoke  weightily, 
insinuatingly  with  intimacy.  When  he  heard  your 
name  mentioned  he  had  excellent  advice  to  offer 
as  to  your  attitude  towards  Trinity  College.  It  was 
Marcus  of  Clooney  who  advised  Mr  Parnell  on  a 
celebrated  occasion.  I  can  see  him  now  in  the  street 
of  Clooney,  speaking  to  the  Chief,  respectfully, 
deferentially.  His  attitude  would  be  that  of  the 
private  soldier  to  whom  an  accident  has  given  the 
key  of  the  enemy's  position.  His  advice  would  be 
respectful  and  disinterested.  You  would  suspect 
Marcus  O'DriscoU  as  being  from  the  south  of  Ireland. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  he  is  from  Munster.  He  has  been 
close  up  forty  years  among  us  ;  but  he  still  regards 
himself  as  a  stranger  in  our  midst.  He  has  confided 
to  me  that,  with  the  best  will  in  the  world,  he  cannot 
quite  understand  our  Midland  type.  He  finds  us 
very  clannish  ;  and  our  conduct,  political  and  private, 
has  often  been  a  disappointment  to  him.  In  spite 
of  our  clannishness,  Marcus  O'DriscoU  has  created 
for  himself  an  extensive  acquaintance  amongst  our 
people.  He  was  very  intimate  with  the  elder  Mr 
Geoghan,  and  always  professed  a  great  regard  for 
the  son.  He  received  Stephen  warmly.  That  young- 
man  beat  about  the  bush  for  nine-tenths  of  his  visit, 
but  at  last  he  informed  Marcus  of  the  he  of  matters. 
Marcus  received  the  information  with  becoming 
discretion.  He  said  little.  He  walked  down  the 
street  with  Stephen,  and  shook  hands  with  him 
many  times.  He  then  went  back  to  his  shop,  and 
with  unexhausted  vitality  listened  to  an  old  woman's 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  187 

story  of  how  her  chickens  had  perished  of  an  unknown 
disease.  He  called  in  a  friend  who  was  passing  by, 
and  advised  him  not  to  let  doctors  interfere  in  a 
family  case.  Afterwards  he  arranged  a  course  of 
conduct  for  a  grazier  who  was  anxious  to  surrender 
a  farm.  Could  the  destiny  of  the  house  of  Geoghan 
be  in  safer  hands  ?  Marcus  was  a  vital  personality. 
He  was,  as  it  were,  discretion  become  self-conscious. 

"  The  representative  of  the  house  of  Geoghan  is 
unknown  to  you.  Stephen  has  a  good  position. 
He  is  a  good-looking  young  man,  but  one  who  is 
hesitant  and  extremely  self-conscious.  Stephen's 
self-consciousness,  has  been  increased  since  his  return 
from  America.  He  brought  back  a  stock  of  American 
clothes  ;  and  he  dresses  in  the  American  fashion. 
He  has  always  the  consciousness  that  the  town  is 
agape  at  his  appearance.  Really  the  sensation  has 
long  since  been  exhausted ;  and  the  town  only 
thinks  of  him  as  a  kindly  young  man  who  calls  for 
'  cocktails  '  when  he  wants  '  half -ones.'  On  Wednes- 
day morning  Stephen  took  a  new  suit  out  of  his 
trunk  and  dressed  himself  carefully.  He  had  in- 
tended to  drive  into  Clooney  ;  but,  by  the  time  the 
horse  and  car  had  been  got  ready,  he  had  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  a  yoke  in  the  street  would  be  an 
embarrassment.  He  took  his  bicycle  out ;  but 
reflection  told  him  that  a  bicycle  would  leave  him 
in  the  town  too  early.  He  decided  to  walk.  He 
turned  back  from  the  gate  to  put  on  a  pair  of 
leggings.  The  leggings  were  yellow,  like  the  washed 
leg  of  a  duck.  Stephen  Geoghan  was  tall  and  of 
a  good  figure  ;  the  leggings  and  the  American  suit 
became    him    very   well.      He    was  such  that    any 


188  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

girl  might  take  a  fancy  to  him.     He  walked  into  the 
town. 

"  Stephen  walked  to  the  town,  his  thoughts  scat- 
tered Uke  sheep  on  a  hill.  He  paused  when  he  came 
in  sight  of  Clooney  :  he  was  overcome  by  the  sight 
of  that  wide,  open  street.  Then  he  made  up  his 
mind  to  advance  boldly,  and  go  into  the  house  of 
Marcus  O'Driscoll.  He  would  probably  have  done 
this  if  he  had  not  become  conscious  of  his  leggings 
at  this  moment.  They  were  bound  to  attract  atten- 
tion. The  people  would  stand  at  their  doors,  or  in 
groups  in  the  street,  and  watch  him  pass.  They 
would  see  him  go  into  Marcus  O'DriscoU's  shop. 
If  Miss  Casey  had  arrived  the  mind  of  the  town  would 
jump  to  his  errand.  '  Marcus  O'Driscoll  is  making 
a  match  for  the  Yank.'  '  Will  the  christening  be 
with  cocktails,  I  wonder  ?  '  No,  he  couldn't  face 
the  town.  He  turned  to  the  hedge,  plucked  out  a 
branch  of  woodbine,  and  considered  his  next  move. 
He  elaborated  a  course  of  conduct :  he  would  walk 
into  the  town  as  if  he  had  come  for  the  sport  of  the 
thing ;  he  would  go  into  a  newspaper  shop  near  and 
go  over  the  sporting  papers  ;  then,  at  the  time  when 
Father  Gilmartin  and  Miss  Casey  would  be  making 
a  start,  he  would  stroll  as  far  as  Marcus's  shop  ; 
Father  Gilmartin  would  then  introduce  him  to  Miss 
Casey ;  Stephen  would  also  be  going  to  the  railway 
station,  and  would  get  a  lift  on  Father  Gilmartin's 
car ;  he  would  go  as  far  as  MuUingar  with  the  party 
— thus  Miss  Casey  and  he  would  make  acquaintance, 
informally  and  agreeably,  and  he  would  have  ample 
time  to  talk  over  affairs  with  Miss  Casey's  male 
relations.    It  is  agreeable  to  approach  these  things 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  189 

in  curves.  The  man  is  foolish  who  attempts  to  reach 
ends  by  straight  Unes,  for  the  earth  is  a  curve.  Be- 
sides, with  this  plan  he  could  arrange  things  himself 
without  the  help  of  Marcus  O'DriscoU.  '  Better 
do  without  that  fellow,'  thought  young  Geoghan ; 
'  he'd  never  let  me  forget  that  I  was  under  a  com- 
pliment to  him.  He'd  tell  the  town  that  it  was  he 
got  the  last  hundred  thrown  in.  By  God,  he'd  want 
the  first  child  christened  Marcus.  It  will  be  a  great 
surprise  to  O'DriscoU  that  I'm  able  to  do  things  out 
of  my  own  brain.  But  I  wasn't  across  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  for  nothing.'  Young  Geoghan  spoke  out  of 
the  fundamental  ingratitude  of  humanity.  In  this 
mood  of  his  we  may  note  that  spiritual  defect  which 
is,  perhaps,  the  root  of  tragedy. 

"  He  went  into  the  newspaper  shop  near,  and  took 
up  a  sporting  paper.  He  stood  reading  the  paper, 
his  legs  wide  apart,  and  the  lower  ornaments  were 
very  conspicuous  to  those  in  the  street,  if  there  were 
any  who  cared  to  note  them.  He  read  one  paper, 
left  it  down  on  the  counter  ;  then  he  took  up  another 
sporting  paper  ;  then  he  said  to  the  girl : — 

"  '  Do  the  priests  here  mind  you  stocking  these 
papers  ?  ' 

"  '  Not  a  bit,'  the  girl  returned. 

"  '  Do  you  think  would  Father  Gilmartin  mind  this 
paper  ?  '  Stephen  pursued. 

"  '  I  couldn't  tell  you,'  said  the  girl  frankly. 

"  '  Did  you  hear  that  Father  Gilmartin  was  to  be 
in  the  town  to-day  ?  ' 

"  '  Well,  no,  I  didn't.  He  didn't  come  yet,  any- 
way,' said  the  girl. 

"  '  I  suppose  you  see  everyone  who  comes  in  ?  ' 


190  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  '  WeU  indeed  I  do.' 

"  Stephen  sat  and  waited.  After  a  while  he  began 
to  doubt  the  girl's  information  as  to  Father  Gilmartin. 
He  began  to  feel  certain  that  the  party  had  arrived, 
and  were  now  at  Marcus  O'Driscoll's.  But  everyone 
who  came  into  the  shop  were  unanimous  in  the 
opinion  that  Father  Gilmartin  wasn't  in  the  town. 
The  sands  were  running  out.  Stephen  would  soon 
have  to  call  at  O'Driscoll's,  if  he  were  to  meet  the 
party  at  all.  He  strolled  out  of  the  shop.  Even  now 
Stephen  did  not  make  a  straight  line.  He  reflected 
that  it  would  not  look  well  to  make  O'Driscoll's  a 
secondary  place  of  call.  The  best  thing  to  do  was 
to  go  a  little  way  back,  re-enter  the  town,  and  go 
straight  to  Marcus  O'Driscoll's.  Stephen  turned  his 
back  to  Marcus  O'Driscoll's.  As  he  came  to  the 
country  road  he  saw  coming  towards  him  the  man 
himself.  Marcus  shook  hands  with  Stephen.  He 
gave  him  a  pressure  long  and  silent.  The  hand- 
shake said  :  '  My  poor  fellow ! '  Audibly  Marcus 
said : — 

"  '  Always  bring  a  stick  with  you  when  you're 
walking.  And  a  stick  is  especially  needed  along  these 
roads.  You're  always  going  up  a  hill.  A  stick 
helps  you  along  more  than  you'd  be  inclined  to  think. 
Besides,  a  stick  is  a  comfort  when  you're  by  yourself, 
or  on  a  dark  night.  It's  company  ;  it's  like  having 
a  dog  with  you.  In  my  own  part  of  the  country 
no  one  would  go  anywhere  without  a  stick  ;  but  you 
can  get  a  good  class  of  a  stick  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 
I  never  saw  an  American  stick  that  I  would  cai'e  to 
carry.  Maybe  you  have  no  other  sticks  except 
American  sticks.' 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  191 

"  Stephen  said  that  he  had  brought  a  cane- stick 
back  with  him. 

"  '  They're  no  good,'  said  Marcus.  '  John's  James 
brought  one  of  them  back  to  me,  but  I  never  used  it. 
I'll  send  it  over  to  you  some  day.  It  has  a  silver- 
mount  that  is  nice  enough.  But  the  stick  you'd 
cut  yourself  is  the  sweetest  stick  you  could  carry. 
Sit  down,  now,  and  I'll  give  you  the  signs  and  tokens 
of  a  good  stick.' 

"  They  sat  down  on  the  ditch,  Stephen  yielding 
himself  with  a  prayer  that  Marcus  would  soon  reach 
the  limit  of  his  disinterestedness.  They  would  soon 
have  to  be  going  to  Marcus's  house.  If  there  were 
any  for  the  Dublin  train  a  start  would  soon  have 
to  be  made. 

"  '  I  beheve,'  said  Marcus,  '  that  every  man  ought 
to  cut  his  own  stick.  It  will  come  better  to  his  hand 
afterwards.  Now,  if  you  are  going  to  cut  a  stick 
about  this  place,  there  are  only  three  kinds  of  timber 
that  you  need  take  into  account,  and  I'll  tell  you 
about  them  now.  The  hazel  makes  a  satisfactory 
stick  ;  it's  light,  and  you  can  cut  one  with  a  middling 
good  knife.  I  heard  of  a  man  who  cut  an  ash-plant 
— cut  it,  mind  you.  Always  pull  an  ash-plant. 
Take  one  about  four  feet  high  and  pull  it  up  from  the 
roots.  If  the  root  does  not  suit  you,  pull  another. 
Ash-plants  are  as  plenty  here  as  stones  on  the  road. 
But  the  best  stick  to  have  is  the  blackthorn ;  it's 
good  at  the  fair,  and  it's  good  on  the  road.  I  brought 
a  fine  blackthorn  with  me  from  the  south  of  Ireland  ; 
but  it's  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  keep  a  good 
stick.  Blackthorns  grow  straight  up  in  certain 
places.     Pick    one    out   that's    well    furnished    with 


192  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

thorns.  Thorns  are  the  sign  of  a  good  stick.  Take 
a  little  saw  with  you  to  cut  it.  I  doubt  if  you'd 
have  a  knife  that  would  cut  a  blackthorn.' 

"  '  I'll  remember  that,'  Stephen  said,  and  he  rose. 

"  '  Wait  a  while,'  said  Marcus.  '  Be  careful  to 
cut  the  stick  to  your  own  height.  A  stick  from  three 
feet  nine  to  four  feet  or  four  feet  and  half  an  inch 
would  just  suit  you.' 

"  '  Let  us  go  back  to  the  shop,'  said  Stephen. 

"  Marcus  arose.  '  Another  thing  about  sticks,'  he 
continued,  '  when  you  get  your  stick  bend  it  to  a 
handle.  Put  a  crook  on  it.  A  crook  gives  you  a 
nice  handling  on  a  stick.' 

"  It  was  at  this  moment  that  a  car  dashed  up. 
There  was  a  priest  and  a  young  lady  on  the  car. 
For  a  moment  Stephen's  heart  stood  still.  But  the 
priest  was  not  Father  Gilmartin.  The  car  passed, 
Marcus  O'DriscoU  making  a  salute,  grave  and  subdued. 
'  'Pon  my  word,'  said  Stephen,  '  I  thought  I  was 
going  to  see  Father  Gilmartin.' 

"  '  He'd  have  come  in  only  for  the  Parish  Confer- 
ence,' said  Marcus.  '  Isn't  it  queer  to  think  that 
you  might  be  living  ten  years  next  to  Martin  Fallon, 
and  he'd  never  give  you  an  advice  about  a  stick.' 

"  '  Stop,'  said  Stephen,  '  who  are  them  gone  by 
on  the  car  ?  ' 

"  '  Father  Casey  and  Miss  Casey,  to  be  sure,'  said 
Marcus. 

"  '  And  why  didn't  you  bring  me  to  the  shop  ?  ' 

"  '  And  didn't  I  see  you  coming  from  the  shop, 
man  ?  ' 

"  '  I  wasn't  in  the  shop  at  all,'  said  Stephen. 

"  '  Is  that  the  sort  of  a  fellow  you  are  ?  '  said 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  193 

Marcus  O'DriscoU.  '  There  you  were,  mooning  about, 
and  anyone  would  have  thought  that  something 
had  come  between  you  and  the  girl.' 

"  '  And  you  kept  me  here  blathering  about  sticks.' 

"  '  Blathering  about  sticks  !  Didn't  I  talk  to  you 
the  way  I'd  talk  to  any  young  man  that  I'd  see 
walking  out  by  himself  without  a  stick  ?  ' 

"  '  It's  the  Hke  of  you  that  has  this  country  the 
way  it  is,'  said  Stephen,  and  he  turned  on  his  heel. 
Marcus  O'DriscoU  stood  for  a  moment  looking  after 
him.  Then  he  walked  down  the  street  slowly.  He 
stood  before  his  shop  door. 

"  '  He's  Hke  the  rest,'  he  said ;  '  they're  all  the 
same :  all  trick-o'-the-loops  and  three-card  men. 
They're  deserving  of  nothing  but  Castle  government, 
and  may  there  long  be  a  Castle  to  rule  over  them.' 

"  Marcus  was  magnanimous  still.  There  was 
nothing  personal  in  his  resentment." 


XII 

The  town  consists  of  a  single  street,  short  enough 
to  let  you  distinguish  your  friends  at  the  other  end. 
It  is  market-day,  but  there  is  no  great  bustle  in  the 
town.  Two  or  three  Constabulary  men  are  lounging 
in  front  of  the  barracks.  The  notice-board  displays 
a  staring  proclamation,  signed  by  the  Vizier — no,  the 
Viceroy.  Under  the  Viceregal  signature  are  names 
that  seem  ridiculous  beneath  the  puissance  of  the 
poster.  These  obscure  names  represent  the  Executive 
in  Ireland. 

N 


194  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

At  the  butt  of  the  street  a  dealer  is  hagghng  with 
a  girl  who  has  brought  young  poultry  to  the  market. 
"  This  girl  was  reared  in  a  bog  ;  you'd  know  that  by 
the  way  she  holds  out  for  her  bargain,"  he  says.  "  The 
old  hags  are  laughing  at  her."  "  I  won't  take  what 
you  offer,  anyway."  "  You'll  be  sorry,  then.  I  know 
a  girl  the  picture  of  you.  She  refused  a  good-looking 
man  worth  thousands,  and  now  she  hes  by  herself 
and  the  bloom  has  gone  off  her."  The  girl  is  not  to 
be  confused  by  this  exuberance  of  language,  and  she 
remains  dogged.  "  The  man  that  gets  you  won't 
have  much  comfort ;  you'll  find  that  he'll  go  out  and 
sleep  in  the  hayrick."  Then  an  old  woman  intervenes. 
"  Take  nine  shillings,  a  vourneen  deelish  (my  Httle 
loved  one),"  she  says,  "  and  you'll  have  luck."  The 
girl  admits  that  there  is  no  harm  in  splitting  the 
difference.  The  bystanders  arrange  the  treaty,  and 
the  dealer  and  the  girl  shake  hands.  When  it  is  aU 
over  the  man  wipes  his  brow  and  makes  a  speech, 
that  is  full  of  a  happy  incongruity.  "  You'd  need  the 
brain  of  an  elephant  in  this  place.  You'd  want  to  be 
like  Jumbo  in  the  Zoological  Gardens  to  be  able  for 
the  women  of  Leitrim." 

We  go  into  an  eating-house  frequented  by  the  country 
people.  The  walls  are  crowded  with  cheap  colour 
prints ;  a  view  of  Venice  is  followed  by  a  Siberian 
hunting  scene,  then  comes  the  British  Cliild  and  Dog 
picture,  the  State  trial  of  Daniel  O'Connell,  a  sacred 
picture.  Burns'  Farewell  to  Highland  Mary,  a  brewery 
horse,  flowers  and  fruit,  a  harvest  scene  advertising 
an  American  plough.  In  a  place  such  as  this  the  food 
is  higlily  priced  and  the  cooking  is  lamentable.  We 
get   mutton   and   vegetables,   bread   and   tea.     The 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  195 

woman  of  the  house  comes  and  discourses  to  me. 
She  had  been  in  America  for  years,  and  she  insists 
that  America  is  the  greatest  country  in  the  world. 
A  farmer  enters  and  seats  himself  opposite.  He  has 
lost  the  use  of  his  right  hand  ;  the  front  of  his  head 
is  bald,  with  veins  across  it,  and  he  has  frightened 
eyes.  He  eats  some  of  his  dinner,  and  then  looks 
across  the  table.  "  This  is  mutton,"  he  says.  He 
stares  at  the  plate  stupefied ;  it  is  as  though  he  has 
broken  some  pledge.  Were  his  family  hanged  for 
sheep-steahng,  I  wonder.  "  I  thought  it  was  beef,  and 
it  turns  out  to  be  mutton,"  he  says.  He  sighs,  and 
goes  on  with  his  dinner.  "It's  a  long  time  since  you 
were  here,  Mr  Murphy,"  our  hostess  remarks,  uncon- 
scious of  his  mysterious  struggles.  Mr  Murphy 
explains  that  he  comes  into  her  house  every  time  he 
is  in  the  town,  but  it  is  a  long  time  since  he  was  at 
the  market.  "  And  how  are  you,  I^Ir  Murphy  ?  " 
Mr  Murphy  sighs,  and  looks  at  her  with  pathos  in  his 
good  brown  eyes.  "  I'm  very  much  reduced,"  he 
says.  "  Well  you're  not  reduced  in  flesh,  no  matter 
how  you  may  be  reduced  in  spirits."  Mr  Murphy 
holds  to  the  word.  "  I  took  a  couple  of  glasses  of 
spirits,  and  that  ought  to  have  raised  me  up,"  he  says. 
"  Maybe  it  did  the  opposite  ?  "  "Ay — maybe,"  says 
Mr  Murphy.  It  was  as  though  the  hteralness  of  the 
common  mind  overcame  one  who  had  a  desperate 
hope  in  the  opium  he  had  taken. 

It  is  "  law  day  "  in  the  town,  and  the  people  who 
come  to  the  table  have  much  to  say  about  a  case 
that  is  being  tried.  It  is  the  case  of  a  "  grabber  " 
who  had  shot  at  a  young  man.  A  "  grabber  "  and 
an  "  emergency-man  "  are  objects  of  aversion  in  an 


196  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

agrarian  community.  A  "  grabber  "  is  the  man  who 
takes  a  farm  over  the  heads  of  those  who,  in  rm'al 
opinion,  have  the  best  right  to  the  property,  and  an 
"  emergency-man  "  is  the  one  put  in  charge  of  the 
farm  of  an  evicted  person  until  opposition  is  worn 
down.  Such  people  are  a  menace  to  rural  security, 
they  share  in  the  infamy  of  the  informer,  and  the  acts 
of  the  "grabber "  and  the  "  emergency-man "  are 
remembered  to  three  generations. 

The  town  is  across  the  Cavan  border,  and  the  people 
take  Connacht  for  their  province.  They  Hke  to  give 
themselves  a  name  for  passion  and  violence.  The 
Cavan  people  pay  a  tribute  to  the  friendliness  of 
Leitrim,  but  hold  that  the  people  across  the  border 
have  something  barbaric  in  them.  "  We're  very 
rough,"  the  Leitrim  people  say  in  a  way  that  makes 
a  claim  for  virility.  Coming  into  the  town  a  Cavan 
man  told  us  a  story  illustrating  his  conception  of 
the  Leitrim  character.  Up  in  the  mountains  there 
a  man  committed  a  murder.  The  police  were  baffled. 
Police  were  drafted  there  until  they  were  as  thick  as 
grass  in  an  acre  of  meadow.  But  were  the  rough  and 
virile  people  intimidated  ?  No,  the  outlaw  was 
sheltered  and  fed.  He  went  to  the  races  in  spite  of 
the  fact  that  five  hundred  pohce  were  waiting  for 
him  there  !  He  stood  looking  over  a  fence,  and  no 
one  dared  put  a  hand  on  him  !  As  I  went  through 
the  town  I  overheard  a  conversation  about  a  man 
who  had  smashed  a  drum.  "  It's  a  wonder  you  let 
go  with  him,"  says  one.  The  other,  a  handsome 
youth,  replies  in  a  voice  as  soft  as  a  meadow  stream, 
"  Sure,  we  butchered  him  on  the  road,  but  what  good 
was  that  to  us  ?     If  he  had  to  crooken  a  lip  to  one  of 


\  MY  IRISH  YEAR  197 

us  we'd  have  pulled  him  to  pieces."  "  We  left  him 
there  in  his  gores  of  blood."  This  violence  is  purely 
ideal.  I  knew  the  man  who  had  smashed  the  drum. 
He  came  home  without  a  scratch. 

In  the  middle  of  the  street  there  are  three  men 
standing  apart.  They  are  sullen-looking  fellows.  I 
ask  a  shopkeeper  who  they  are.  "  Two  grabbers  and 
an  emergency-man.  They  are  in  the  town  about  a 
case  that  is  on  to-day."  "  And  are  they  not  afraid  of 
the  town  ?  "  "  They  needn't  be  afraid  ;  no  one  will 
touch  them."  "  They  are  boycotted  ?  "  "  They  won't 
get  bit  nor  sup  in  the  town."  "  And  if  one  of  them 
comes  in  and  asks  to  buy  this  straw  hat,  what  will 
you  do  ?  "  "  I'll  tell  him  I  wouldn't  give  it  to  liim 
for  a  sovereign."  It  should  be  remembered  that  the 
boycott  can  only  be  effective  when  public  opinion 
knows  itself  outraged.  The  grabbers  and  the 
emergency-man  make  a  move.  No  one  lifts  eyes  to 
them ;  no  countenance  is  given  to  them.  Gripping 
their  ash-plants  the  three  go  down  the  street. 


XIII 

The  camels  went  through  Clooney  with  an  austere 
aloofness ;  their  sad  and  proud  heads  were  lifted 
high,  and  they  looked  as  if  they  had  sight  of  the 
Deserts  beyond.  But  the  elephant  hated  Clooney. 
His  toes  were  whitened,  and  a  big  star  was  marked 
out  on  his  forehead.  No  one  had  put  on  him  a  sign 
to  show  that  the  cup  of  his  rage  was  full.  But  that 
was  shown  in  his  eyes,  that  were  little  and  very  old 


198  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

and  full  of  malignity.  He  shambled  on,  swinging  his 
head  from  side  to  side.  Not  in  any  order,  but  as  it 
pleased,  the  procession  went  through  the  town.  At 
the  head  of  the  street  you  saw  a  bunch  of  cavaUers 
in  blue  and  yellow  and  green.  There  was  a  great 
white  horse  with  a  white- clad  rider ;  then  a  golden 
chariot  with  silver  dragons  carved  upon  it.  The 
camels  had  their  Arab,  and  the  elephant  had  his 
Indian.  A  black  and  bucking  broncho  was  bestridden 
by  an  iron-handed  rider  of  the  Wild  West.  But  who 
could  make  words  stand  for  a  circus  procession  ?  It 
might  be  shown  in  pictures  by  an  artist  possessed  of 
the  light  and  the  colour  of  Spain.  A  girl  in  blue  and 
silver,  mounted  on  a  rhythmically-pacing  steed,  rode 
proudly  on.  Silver  scales  were  woven  into  the  body 
of  her  dress,  and  silver  spangled  the  wide  blue  of  her 
skirt.  Her  forehead  was  pale,  and  ringlets  of  gold 
fell  to  her  waist.  On  she  rode,  holding  the  long 
white  reins  loosely  in  her  hands. 

The  fair-green  was  crowded  with  unusual  cattle. 
Instead  of  burly  bullocks  and  unsophisticated  sheep 
there  were  statuesque  steeds  and  pigmy  ponies.  The 
horses  on  the  green  were  really  less  familiar  than  the 
Uons  that  gazed  steadily  out  of  the  bars  of  their  cage. 
"  One  hundred  and  sixty  horses,"  said  the  poster ; 
they  were  all  there.  Monumental  horses,  whiter  than 
white-wash,  with  flowing  manes  and  tails,  were  having 
their  hooves  whitened.  Ponies,  stranger  than  the 
pigmies  of  Africa,  or  the  dwarfs  of  a  medieval  court, 
stood  in  a  herd.  Piebalds  roamed  about.  Undistin- 
guished cart-horses  extended  the  equine  area.  "  Four 
Uons,  two  camels,  eight  cockatoos,  an  elephant,  and 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  199 

an  eagle."  The  eagle  was  really  a  vulture.  In  the 
cage  next  the  lions'  den  the  vulture  sat  biding  liis 
time.  The  elephant  looked  his  hatred  of  Clooney ; 
but  in  the  vulture's  unwavering  eyes  there  was  a 
hatred  more  abysmal.  He  had  followed  the  banners 
of  Ghengis  Khan,  and  now  he  sat  between  dispirited 
Hons  and  a  sullen  slave  of  an  elephant.  Cockatoos 
played  low  comedy  in  the  cage  next  his.  These 
creatures  surpassed  the  showman's  invention.  They 
were  whiter  than  the  whiteness  of  his  monumental 
horses,  and  more  red  than  the  redness  of  his  rider's 
underskirts  ;  they  were  graver  than  clowns  off  duty, 
and  more  sprightly  than  clowns  in  the  ring.  They 
revealed  the  fact  that  the  showman  works  alongside 
nature.  If  the  circus  had  not  been  foreseen,  why 
would  such  creatures  have  been  invented  ?  They 
looked  as  old  and  as  stale  as  human  artifice,  and  as 
fresh  as  our  interest  in  clowns  and  tumblers  ;  our 
delight  in  the  colour  that  is  whiter  than  white  and 
greener  than  green. 

The  great  tent  bafiled  the  sun  ;  the  earth  had  been 
freshly  turned,  and  a  smell  of  the  sod  prevailed  above 
the  smell  of  the  sawdust.  Horses  circled  the  ring  in 
a  gallop  that  kept  up  with  the  gallop  of  our  pulses. 
The  acrobats  rested  lightly  on  their  trapezes,  or 
suddenly  made  a  swing  the  accomplice  of  their  flight. 
Marvels  happened  to  the  continuous  excitement  of 
the  music.  The  pachyderm  led  off  the  performing 
horse,  and  then  a  feat  of  jugghng  and  athletics  was 
performed  before  us.  A  man  suspended  on  his  back 
tossed  logs  with  his  feet  and  made  them  spin  in  the 
air.     The  music  infected  the  elephant  and  the  horses. 


200  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  riders  and  the  acrobats.  But  just  outside  the 
arena  a  woman  worked  a  sewing-machine  steadily. 
She  did  not  Hft  her  eyes  to  see  the  girl  who  circled 
the  ring,  throwing  herself  into  a  sitting  posture,  or 
raising  herself  erect  on  the  horse's  back.  This  damsel 
incarnated  the  music  of  the  circus.  Energy  and 
abandonment  filled  out  the  lines  of  her  figure.  Round 
and  round  she  galloped,  round  and  round  again — 
motion,  energy,  the  perfectly  incarnated  will.  The 
clown  grabbed  at  the  galloping  horse.  He  succeeded 
in  holding  on.  With  the  wonderful  luck  of  the  fool 
he  kept  his  seat  on  the  horse.  Then  another  horse 
and  rider  raced  them  neck  and  neck ;  then  another, 
and  then  another.  With  the  pole  of  the  circus  for 
pivot  the  cavalcade  swung  round  and  round. 

Men,  half-sailors,  half-pugilists,  had  erected  the 
great  tent.  There  was  an  inner  ring  and  an  outer 
ring,  and  two  tiers  of  seats.  We  sat  near  the  outer 
ring  and  the  sawdust,  and  the  great  ones  of  the  town 
were  on  the  high  seats  next  the  canvas.  There  you 
saw  policemen  with  tenderly-reared  families  of  httle 
girls,  and  late- come  bank  clerks  who  commented  freely 
on  the  performance.  On  the  same  tier  of  seats,  but 
far  away  from  bank  clerks  and  policemen,  were  four 
creatures  distinct  from  the  rest  of  the  audience. 
What  were  they  ?  They  wore  some  regulation  garb, 
and  each  showed  some  distinct  abasement  of  the 
human  type.  Evidently,  they  were  from  the  work- 
house, and  defectives.  We  were  now  at  the  end  of 
the  performance,  and  the  lions  were  about  to  be 
brought  into  the  circus.  The  old  apple  woman 
hastened  from  the  outer  ring.     In  came  the  beasts, 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  201 

their  cage  drawn  by  two  cart-horses.  The  lions 
planted  themselves  at  the  four  sides  of  the  cage  and 
looked  at  us  steadily.  The  ring-master  made  an 
impressive  announcement.  "  Herr  Forrestier  will 
now  go  through  the  performance  that  he  has  given 
before  all  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe.  He  will 
put  his  head  into  the  lion's  mouth.  He  does  this  at 
the  imminent  risk  of  his  Hfe."  A  lioness  was  induced 
to  extend  herself  upward.  The  tamer  forced  her 
mouth  open  and  ducked  in  his  head.  Then  he  got 
out  of  the  cage,  and,  safe  on  the  sawdust,  received 
our  ovation.  The  lions  roared,  but  the  Ufe  seemed 
to  have  gone  out  of  the  circus.  We  were  aware  of 
the  old  cart-horses  with  drooping  heads,  of  the  defec- 
tive men  behind,  of  the  lions,  subject  less  to  native 
rage  than  to  neurasthenia.  We  went  out  of  the 
tent  and  saw  the  proprietor  before  his  van,  sitting 
like  a  Pasha,  a  green  parrot  beside  him. 


XIV 

Cavan  Races 

An  Old  Ballad 

Cavan  is  a  sporting  place  adapted  for  the  game. 
Well  improv'd  for  recreations  with  a  smooth   and 

level  plain. 
To  see  each  steed,  with  gallant  speed,  all  prancing 

for  the  start. 
And  incUned  to  face  the  winning  post,  and  no  one 

there  is  slack. 


202  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

The  tents  are  in  rotation  in  the  middle  of  the  course. 
With  the  best  accommodation  in  the  world  can  pro- 
duce. 
The  landlady  inside  with  her  bottle  and  glass, 
And   she   multiplying   the   whiskey   lest  the  topers 
should  run  short. 

It's  there  you'd  see  confectioners  with  sugar  sticks 

and  cakes, 
To  accommodate  the  ladies  and  to  molify  their  tastes  ; 
The  gingerbread  and  lozenges  and  spices  of  all  sorts, 
And  a  big  crubeen  for  threepence  to  be  picking  till 

you're  home. 

It's  there  you'd  see  the  muggers  and  they  firing  at 

their  hoops, 
And  the  man  with  the  long  garter  they  call  the  trick- 

of-the-loup  ; 
The  thimble  men  so  nimble  that  never  acted  wrong, 
And  the  splendid  wheel  of  fortune  that  lately  came 

from  France. 

It's  there  you'd  see  the  pipers  and  fiddlers  in  tune, 
And  the  dancers  without  falter  that  can  crack  and 

tip  the  floor. 
They'll  call  for  liquor  merrily,  and  pay  before  they^go, 
And  they'll  treat  and  kiss  the  girls,  and  their  mothers 

will  not  know. 

It's  there  you'd  see  the  jockeys  and  they  dressed  in 

blue  and  green. 
And  they  mounted  on  their  horses  most  commodious 

to  be  seen. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  20S 

When  the  bugle  sounds  for  starting  the  people  shout 

for  joy, 
And  they  betting  ten  to  one  upon  the  horse  that  wins 

the  prize. 

Now  my  pen  is  weary  and  I  mean  to  end  my  song, 
Success  attend  the  gentlemen  the  races  first  began  ; 
Success  attend  each  gallant  steed  that  nimbly  crossed 

the  plain, 
May  we  live  to  see  the  races  in  Cavan  once  again. 


PART  III 
THE  WEST-SKETCHES 


"  Now  commg  on  Spring  the  days  will  be  growing, 
And  after  Saint  Bride's  Day,  my  sail  I  will  throw. 
Since  the  thought  has  come  to  me,  I  fain  would  be  going 
Till  I  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  County  Mayo. 

The  first  of  my  days  wUl  be  spent  in  Claremorris 

And  in  Balla  down  from  it  I'U  have  drinking  and  sport. 

To  KUtimagh  then  I  shall  go  on  a  visit, 

And  there  I  can  tell  you  a  month  will  be  short. 

I  solemnly  swear  that  the  heart  in  me  rises 
As  the  wind  rises  up  and  the  mist  breaks  below 
When  I  think  upon  Carra  and  on  Gallen  down  from  it. 
The  Bush  of  the  Mile  and  the  Plains  of  Mayo. 

KUleadean's  my  village,  and  every  good's  in  it. 
There's  raspberries,  blackberries,  and  aU  kinds  of  fruit. 
And  if  Raftery  stood  in  the  midst  of  his  people, 
Old  age  would  go  from  him  and  he'd  be  in  his  youth." 

P.  C. 
{From  the  Irish  of  Raftery's  "  County  Mayo.") 


The  vicinity  of  the  town  seems  to  be  in  the  grip  of 
an  invading  army.  On  outside  cars  and  on  bicycles, 
and  armed  with  rifles  of  the  latest  pattern,  the 
Constabulary  patrol  the  country.  There  has  been 
agrarian  trouble  in  the  district  and  cattle  have  been 
repeatedly  driven  off  a  ranch. 

The  town  is  in  a  fertile  plain  ;  it  is  at  the  end  of  a 
railway  line,  and  has  the  trade  of  the  villages  in  an 
area  of  forty  miles.  To-day  business  and  repression 
are  mixed.  A  few  clumps  of  black  cattle  are  in  the 
street.  Mountain  ponies  with  flowing  manes  and 
tails,  and  eyes  that  are  like  the  eyes  of  deer,  roam 
about.  The  men  have  ash-plants  in  their  hands  : 
they  go  in  twos  and  threes  talking  earnest  Irish  or 
EngHsh.  Everywhere  there  are  armed  constabulary. 
In  a  room  off  a  shop  a  reserve  company  are  playing 
cards.  One  constable  stands  fully  dressed.  With 
his  helmet,  his  wide  purple  lips  and  his  weather- 
beaten  face,  he  looks  hke  a  Roman  veteran.  Suddenly 
a  squad  marches  down  the  street  and  the  band  that 
is  with  a  popular  gathering  plays  defiantly. 

In  from  the  empty  country  come  carts  loaded 
with  black  turf.  They  pass  others  that  go  out  piled 
with  bags  of  flour.  If  we  follow  the  outgoing  carts 
we  will  go  into  the  area  of  agrarian  disturbance. 
I  walk  with  two  men  and  one  of  them  has  just  been 
released  from  the  gaol  of  the  town. 


207 


208  IVIY  IRISH  YEAR 

II 

Land  Hunger 

One  rarely  saw  Mchael  Hefiernan  apart  from  his 
son  Hugh.  Hugh  was  less  of  a  personaHty  than  his 
father,  but  in  a  crowd  of  Connacht  people  he  was 
noticeable  for  his  quiet  manner ;  he  always  seemed 
a  little  withdrawn  from  the  Hfe  of  the  fair  or  th6 
spree.  You  might  describe  Hugh  Heffernan  as  a 
"  soft  young  fellow."  He  did  not  look  robust,  and 
there  was  something  of  soUcitude  in  the  way  that 
his  father  watched  him.  Michael  Heffernan  was 
typical  of  his  people.  He  had  the  peasant  face, 
broad  and  shrewd,  the  deep-set,  humorous  eyes, 
and  the  resolute  mouth.  He  had  been  away  from  the 
land  for  years.  After  the  death  of  his  wife,  Michael 
went  to  England,  and  he  had  worked  in  a  dockyard 
amongst  aliens.  He  had  come  back  to  Connacht 
to  mind  the  child,  he  said.  The  child  had  called  him, 
surely,  but  the  land  had  called  him,  too.  The  Uttle 
house  on  the  wet  hillside,  the  patch  of  land  around, 
had  drawn  Michael  Heffernan  as  the  ship  draws 
the  sailor,  as  the  barrack  draws  the  soldier.  Michael 
had  nature  for  the  land,  as  they  say.  I  do  not  know 
what  visionary  faculty  he  possessed,  but  I  venture 
to  think  that  beyond  the  smoke  of  the  shipping  town, 
Michael  Heffernan  often  saw  the  potatoes  become 
green  on  the  ridge  and  the  oats  patch  turn  from, 
green  to  yellow.  This  man  had  no  affinity  with 
his  companions  nor  his  English  surroundings,  and  the 
money  paid  to  him  was  only  Httle  coins.     He  wanted 


MAN    OF    THE   CONGESTED    DISTRICTS. 
(From  a  photograph.) 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  209 

to  see  his  labour  grow  into  something ;  become  crop 
and  harvest.  And  so  he  came  back  to  the  deep  soil, 
to  the  smell  of  the  earth,  to  the  satisfaction  of  being 
over  the  sod.  He  came  back  to  his  farm,  and  his 
child.  Tenderly  he  reared  one,  shrewdly  he  worked 
the  other.  Hugh  had  grown  up  ;  he  was  now  a 
young  man  of  twenty-three,  and  father  and  son  were 
inseparable.  They  Hved  together  and  alone.  A 
neighbour  woman  milked  the  cow  and  made  the  cake 
for  them. 

The  Heffernans  had  only  four  acres  of  land ;  they 
were  pinched  between  a  mountain  and  a  grazing  farm. 
On  the  day  of  his  return  Michael  Heffernan  walked 
through  his  own  little  holding  and  saw  the  rich  land 
beyond,  vacant  except  for  cattle.  From  that  day  he 
hungered  for  more  land.  To  have  ample  land,  and 
with  the  land  cattle  and  horses.  No  man  had  a 
better  eye  for  a  beast,  no  man  had  a  better  hand  on 
a  horse.  He  would  walk  up  and  down  the  fair 
watching  the  cattle  and  the  horses  and  going  over 
their  points.  His  own  holding  could  only  support  a 
cow,  a  calf,  an  ass,  and  some  sheep.  We  reaUse 
the  pinch  of  small  holdings  when  we  consider  what 
the  lack  of  a  horse  meant  to  the  Heff  ernans.  It  meant 
that  the  tillage  of  the  farm  must  be  done  with  the 
spade,  and  this  is  an  enormous  tax  in  labour.  Many's 
the  time  Michael  Heffernan  let  his  spade  lie  while 
he  watched  the  horses  of  the  rich  farmer  plough  up 
the  ridge  of  the  hillside.  Isn't  it  well  for  them  who 
can  yoke  horses  to  their  plough !  The  horses  go 
before  you,  turning  up  the  earth ;  so  much  done,  so 
Httle  labour  on  yourself.  The  wide  space  of  ground, 
the  horses,  the  plough,  had  an  imaginative  value 
o 


210  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

for  Michael  Heffernan.  To  this  child  of  the  earth 
to  plough  with  horses  was  poetry  and  ritual. 

Michael  had  often  to  compare  Hugh's  living  with 
the  living  enjoyed  by  the  young  men  working  in  the 
dockyards  of  England.  He  would  see  Hugh  going 
out  in  the  morning  without  a  rasher  to  his  breakfast 
and  without  an  egg  three  days  in  the  week.  Hugh 
was  ill  one  time  and  Michael  had  to  ask  milk  from  a 
neighbour.  Coming  back,  he  looked  across  the  grass 
lands  adjoining  his  holding.  He  saw  the  calves 
sucking  milk  from  the  cows.  Michael  Heffernan 
was  filled  with  the  indignation  of  the  Prophets  of  the 
Old  Testament.  It  was  as  if  you  had  seen  a  riotous 
youth  trampling  a  loaf  in  the  gutter.  Christians 
were  without  the  milk  of  a  cow  ! 

The  sight  entered  Michael  Heffernan's  heart.  It 
went  towards  making  him  the  prophet  of  an  agrarian 
agitation.  Soon  after  this  there  was  a  meeting  in 
the  Chapel  yard — a  lecturer  had  come  to  tell  the 
people  of  a  new  method  of  spraying  potatoes.  Some 
of  the  speakers  referred  to  the  possibility  of  a  certain 
Land  Department  taking  over  Lord  Clanwilliam's 
estate  and  redistributing  the  land  amongst  those 
whose  holdings  were  not  up  to  the  economic  standard 
of  twenty  acres.  Michael  Heffernan  was  moved  to 
speak.  He  spoke  with  the  power  of  a  man  who 
feels  deeply.  Let  them  divide  the  land  and  give 
poor  people  a  chance  to  live.  They  were  worn  out 
working  on  their  little  farms.  They  were  without 
proper  food ;  in  bad  seasons  they  were  without  the 
turf  for  the  fire.  Let  them  make  division  of  the  land, 
and  they  would  have  the  prayers  of  the  poor  people — 
ay,  and  the  blessing  of  God,  too,  who  never  intended 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  211 

that  people  should  have  such  a  poor  way  of  living. 
Michael  Heffernan's  speech  found  a  vigorous  response. 
As  a  consequence  of  the  feeling  aroused,  pressure  was 
brought  on  the  Land  Department  to  open  negotia- 
tions with  Lord  Clanwilham.  One  Sunday  the  priest 
announced  from  the  altar  that  negotiations  were 
proceeding.  Michael  Heffernan  was  profoundly 
moved.  When  he  knelt  down  again  he  said  a  prayer 
for  success  and  for  God's  guidance. 

The  negotiations  bore  no  fruit  for  the  tenants. 
A  grazier  from  the  town  offered  a  good  rent  for  the 
grass  and  the  land  that  adjoined.  Michael  Heffer- 
nan's  holding  was  let  on  the  eleven  months'  system. 
Michael  was  in  the  town  when  the  news  became 
known.  He  hurried  back.  Standing  on  the  ditch, 
he  saw  the  stock  put  on  the  farm.  There  were  only 
fifty  head  of  cattle  brought  that  evening,  and  a  few 
sheep  and  lambs.  He  went  to  the  house,  and  Hugh 
and  himself  sat  over  the  fire  for  a  long  time  that 
night.  They  rested  themselves  for  a  while  on  the 
bed,  and  at  daylight  they  went  out.  They  rounded 
up  the  sheep  and  cattle.  Early  in  the  morning  they 
were  driving  the  flocks  and  herds  along  the  road 
back  to  the  town,  five  miles  away.  Men  turned  back 
from  their  journey  and  joined  them.  Early  workers 
in  the  field  threw  down  the  spade  and  went  with  them. 
Young  men  came  out  of  the  houses  and  joined  the 
troop.  It  was  a  good-humoured,  if  excited,  crowd. 
Hugh  Heffernan  was  wild  with  excitement.  He 
shouted  and  sang  songs.  Michael  went  on  the  march 
steadily  and  seriously.  He  drove  Ireton's  cattle 
as  though  he  had  been  paid  for  it.  He  could  not  but 
be  attentive  to  cattle.     He  had  been  reared  amongst 


212  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

these  friendly  beasts,  and  he  could  no  more  injure 
a  cow  than  he  could  pass  by  on  the  road  and  see  a 
cow  trampHng  down  a  field  of  oats.  He  picked  up 
a  lamb  and  carried  it  in  his  arms.  With  the  great, 
lumbering  beasts  before  them  the  people  came  into 
the  town.  They  brought  the  cattle  up  to  the  grazier's 
house,  and  they  soon  had  Mr  Ireton  amongst  them. 
In  a  few  words  Michael  Heffernan  told  the  grazier 
that  the  peasants  would  not  allow  cattle  on  that 
part  of  Lord  Clanwilliam's  estate.  The  estate  must 
be  broken  up  and  divided  amongst  the  people  who 
wanted  land. 

Next  day  the  original  stock  and  additions  were 
put  back  on  the  grass  farm.  The  grazier  had  invested 
his  money,  and  was  not  going  to  be  at  any  loss. 
Besides,  a  political  party  urged  him  to  make  a  fight 
and  promised  him  a  backing.  John  Ireton  was  a 
man  of  the  Planter  breed.  By  tradition  and  con- 
nection he  belonged  to  the  landlord  regime.  His 
connections  were  amongst  bailiffs  and  agents,  and 
the  position  and  incomes  of  this  class  were  en- 
dangered by  land  transfer.  John  Ireton  was  kindly 
to  his  neighbours,  but  he  sincerely  distrusted  the 
Celtic  peasantry.  Between  him  and  them  there 
was  a  racial  antipathy  not  to  be  overcome.  It  was 
class  against  class — ay,  appetite  against  appetite. 
John  Ireton  stood  up  for  his  own  appetite  and  his 
own  class. 

It  was  to  the  interest  of  the  people  to  make  graz- 
ing profitless  ;  therefore,  though  extra  police  were 
brought  into  the  district,  the  cattle  were  driven  again. 
This  time  the  cattle  would  not  be  brought  to  the 
grazier's  yard ;   they  would  be  scattered  to  the  four 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  213 

corners  of  the  county.  Michael  Heffernan  told  his 
son  to  remain  at  home.  Serious  and  determined 
himself,  he  joined  the  assembly.  He  drove  off  a 
certain  number  of  cattle  towards  the  hills.  That 
day  the  people  came  into  conflict  with  the  police,  and 
Michael  Heffernan  was  arrested  on  a  charge  of  inflict- 
ing injury  on  Mr  Ireton's  cattle.  He  was  asked  to 
find  bail.  Michael  Heffernan  felt  very  seriously 
about  the  cause.  He  knew  the  land  was  not  to  be 
won  Hghtly  nor  without  sacrifice.  He  refused  to  find 
bail  and  he  went  to  jail  for  a  month.  Meantime  the 
agrarian  trouble  came  to  a  settlement.  Mr  Ireton 
surrendered  the  farm  to  Lord  ClanwilHam,  and  the 
landlord  reopened  negotiations  with  the  Land  Depart- 
ment. Michael  Heffernan  came  out  of  prison,  crowds 
cheering,  victory  assured.  He  walked  about  un- 
steadily. Hugh  came  to  him,  and  they  left  the 
town  and  the  crowds.  There  was  a  darkness  on 
Michael's  spirit,  the  shadow  of  disgrace  and  humilia- 
tion. He  let  Hugh  talk,  saying  a  few  vague  words 
himself  now  and  again.  The  familiar  roads  and  the 
sight  of  growing  things  brought  some  restoration. 

"  Hugh,  a  chara,"  said  Michael  out  of  a  silence, 
"  you  will  have  a  good  place  for  yourself  some  day." 

"  The  sergeant  told  me  that  ten  acres  would  be 
added  to  our  holding,"  Hugh  said. 

"  Now,  isn't  that  better  than  an  American  legacy  ?  " 
said  Michael.  He  knew  that  it  was  better  than  ten 
legacies  ;  an  American  legacy  never  brought  luck  to 
anyone.  But  Michael  had  not  begun  to  think  as  yet. 
He  could  only  find  formal  expressions.  "  We  can 
keep  a  horse  now,"  he  went  on. 

"If  we  had  a  horse   I   could  earn  good  money 


214  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

many's  the  day  in  the  week,  drawing  goods  from 
the  town." 

"  We  will  have  a  beast  or  a  couple  of  beasts," 
Michael  replied.  Father  and  son  walked  on  in  silence. 
Then  Michael  said,  after  a  space  : 

"  I  saw  you  with  a  yoxuig  woman  one  Sunday 
evening,  and  she  was  a  stranger  to  me." 

"  She's  by  the  name  of  Coyne,"  Hugh  said  briefly 
and  formally. 

"  Maybe  she'd  be  a  daughter  to  Bartley  Coyne  ?  '* 
Michael  went  on. 

"  She  is.  She  is  Bedellia  Coyne,  and  she's  back 
from  America  a  while  now,"  Hugh  replied. 

"  Ay,  Bridget  Coyne,"  said  Michael,  giving  her  her 
pre- American  name.  "  She  was  a  good  while  in 
America,  and  all  her  people  had  the  name  of  being 
saving." 

"  She  has  earned  her  fortune  Hke  many's  the  girl," 
said  Hugh.  There  was  silence  between  the  two  men 
for  a  while.    Then  Michael  said  : 

"  I  don't  care  for  Yankees,  no  matter  for  their 
fortunes.     They're  no  good  about  a  farmer's  house." 

"  Bedellia  Coyne  is  a  good  girl,"  Hugh  said,  rather 
warmly.  "  She's  a  great  favourite  with  me.  And 
she  has  a  wish  for  me,  too.     I  know  that." 

"  Please  yourself,  my  son,"  said  Michael.  "  I'm 
only  thinking  about  your  prosperity.  My  life 
wouldn't  be  any  good  to  me  unless  I  saw  you  pros- 
perous from  this  out.  Stay  on  the  land  for  a  while 
and  do  nothing  until  we  settle  down." 

That  evening  Michael  Heffernan  made  a  journey 
over  to  Coyne's  and  received  something  of  a  state 
welcome   from   Bartley    and   his    woman.     He   saw 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  215 

Bedellia,  and  approved  of  her,  although  he  would  have 
preferred  a  country  girl  for  his  son.  Bedellia  had 
distinction  in  dress  and  appearance.  She  was  fair, 
and,  like  Irish  girls  of  that  type  who  have  been  for 
some  years  in  America,  her  hair  and  her  eyes  were 
rather  faded.  BedelHa  was  in  no  hurry  back  to  the 
States.  She  had  got  fond  of  Hugh  Heffernan,  the 
quiet,  mannerly,  young  fellow,  and  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to  marry  him. 

The  young  men  in  the  district  had  attained  a  certain 
prosperity.  There  was  talk  of  marriages  and  of  the 
building  of  new  houses.  Hugh  Heffernan  and  BedelHa 
Coyne  were  one  of  the  four  couples  that  got  married 
that  summer. 


Ill 

A  district  is  said  to  be  congested  when  the  land 
available  is  not  sufficient  in  area  nor  productive 
enough  in  quality  to  provide  economic  holdings  for 
the  families  settled  in  the  district.  What  area  con- 
stitutes an  economic  holding  in  Ireland  ?  According 
to  the  leaflet  issued  by  the  Department  of  Agriculture 
and  Technical  Instruction,^  the  area  should  not  be 
less  than  fifty  acres.  The  Department's  expert  notes 
that  an  economic  holding  should  be  such  as  to 
enable  a  farmer  to  bring  up  his  family  in  a  spirit  of 
independence,  to  supply  them  with  a  sufficient  amount 
of  wholesome  food  and  serviceable  clothing ;  to 
provide  them  with  a  fair  general  education ;  to  ap- 
prentice one  or  more  children  to  a  business  or  a  trade  ; 
to  find  constant  employment  for  himself  and  the  son 

Leaflet  No.  34— ^' The  Revival  of  Tillage  in  Ireland." 


216  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

who  is  to  succeed  him,  as  well  as  to  occupy  profitably 
the  spare  time  of  other  members  of  the  family  until 
they  leave  the  home,  and  finally,  to  save  enough  to 
prevent  his  being  a  burden  on  the  son  who  succeeds 
him.  The  minimum  size  of  the  holding  that  will 
meet  these  conditions  is  determined  by  which  instru- 
ment of  tillage  can  be  used  with  economy — the  spade 
or  the  plough.  Now  the  spade  can  only  be  used 
economically  under  a  system  of  intensive  cultivation, 
and  this  style  of  culture  is  impossible  in  Ireland 
except  in  a  few  favoured  locaHties.  Under  existing 
conditions  Irish  farmers  have  to  make  use  of  a 
system  that  aims  at  the  production  of  roots,  potatoes, 
corn,  hay,  and  grass,  to  be  sold  or  converted  into  beef, 
mutton,  pork,  butter,  eggs  and  poultry.  They  must 
use,  not  the  spade  but  the  plough.  The  efficient  work- 
ing of  the  plough,  says  the  Department's  expert, 
necessitates  the  use  of  two  horses  :  a  holding,  there- 
fore, to  be  economic,  should  be  of  a  size  sufiicient,  to 
keep  two  horses  at  work — about  fifty  statute  acres 
of  average  quality,  exclusive  of  bog  and  land  that 
cannot  be  cultivated  or  reclaimed.  There  are  590,000 
holdings  in  Ireland.  Out  of  these  350,000  (exclusive 
of  75,000  not  exceeding  an  acre)  do  not  exceed  thirty 
statute  acres  in  area.  In  the  Congested  Districts,  the 
holdings  are  generally  from  four  to  six  acres.  The 
parts  of  Ireland  said  to  be  congested  are  now  under 
the  administration  of  the  Congested  Districts  Board. 
The  immediate  policy  of  the  Board  is  to  secure  the 
productive  lands  in  the  vicinity  of  the  uneconomic 
holdings  and  divide  them  amongst  the  tenants  that 
are  pinched. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  217 


IV 

The  new  settlers  are  destitute  of  capital,  stock  and 
implements,  and  they  are  often  without  the  training 
and  discipUne  necessary  for  larger  agriculture.  Under 
these  circumstances  the  Congested  Districts  Board 
has  often  to  adopt  an  attitude  of  paternahsm  towards 
them.  This  paternalism  must  often  be  injurious  to 
the  enterprise  of  the  new  settlers.  Voluntary 
co-operation  seems  to  offer  the  best  solution  of  the 
material  and  moral  problems  involved  in  the  new 
settlement — co-operation  applied  to  rural  credit,  to 
butter-production,  to  cottage  industries  and  perhaps 
to  grazing. 


The  district  around  Foxford  looks  like  a  very 
Thebaid.  Here  Nature  seems  to  have  tried  every 
form  of  infertility  possible  in  a  moist  climate.  There 
are  bogs  in  every  part  of  Ireland,  but  here  the  bogs 
run  into  barren  hills.  Elsewhere  the  hills  are  treeless 
and  bare,  but  here  they  have  a  special  desolation  : 
they  are  mere  ridges  of  sullen  infertility  not  high 
enough  to  hft  the  mind.  Everywhere  there  are  rocks. 
Stones  He  in  the  fields,  and  the  fences  of  the  little 
clearings  are  of  stone.  Where  there  is  cultivation 
the  ridges  of  black  earth  are  interrupted  by  rocks. 
These  patches  of  tillage  add  to  the  desolation  of  the 
country,  for  they  give  the  impression  of  painful  effort. 
Then  there  are  stretches  of  water  and  water-logged 
fields.    In  the  fields  there  is  not  a  beast.     But  the 


218  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

human  habitations  are  signs  of  hope  on  these  bleak 
landscapes.  They  are  out  of  harmony  with  the  sur- 
rounding bog,  but  they  are  tidy,  well-built  and  com- 
fortable. The  houses  are  new  :  none  of  the  old  hovels 
are  to  be  seen.  These  new  cottages  are  the  most 
conspicuous  result  of  the  Congested  Districts  Board's 
Administration. 


VI 

We  have  suggested  that  on  these  tiny  holdings  the 
plough  cannot  be  used.  All  the  labour  must  be  done 
with  the  spade  or  the  loy.  As  a  consequence  of  this 
the  owner  of  the  little  holding  cannot  take  employ- 
ment as  an  agricultural  labourer,  for  the  tilled  acre 
demands  all  his  sweat.  The  land  cannot  support  the 
people,  and  the  income  derived  from  the  cottage 
industries  that  the  Board  has  set  up  is  hardly 
perceptible.  Men  and  women  go  as  agricultural 
labourers  to  England  and  Scotland  at  certain  seasons, 
and  the  earnings  of  these  migratory  labourers  go  to 
make  up  the  living  of  the  families  in  the  Congested 
Districts.  But  the  biggest  contribution  to  the  income 
of  the  families  comes  from  America.  Into  eight  poor 
districts,  thousands  of  pounds  are  sent  every  year — 
mainly  the  earnings  of  girls  in  domestic  service. 
With  the  contribution  received,  each  household  pays 
the  shop  debts  and  buys  the  year's  stock — a  few 
sheep  and  a  cow  perhaps.  Naturally  the  emigration 
from  these  districts  is  large.  Out  of  a  family  of  six 
four  go  to  America. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  219 


VII 

In  Connemara  one  cannot  help  but  notice  the 
industry  of  the  men  and  women,  but  of  the  women 
especially.  The  people  are  constant  workers  in  their 
fields  and  in  their  houses.  They  continue  cottage 
industries  which  have  died  out  in  other  parts  of 
Ireland.  They  make  beautiful  lace.  Emigration 
has  reduced  the  people  in  numbers,  but  as  yet  it  has 
caused  no  visible  deterioration  in  the  type.  The 
people  are  noticeably  handsome  and  remarkably  in- 
telligent, and  they  have  a  vitality  that  lets  them  work 
all  day  and  dance  half  the  night.  Emigration  is  not 
such  a  menace  to  racial  fitness  as  the  late  and  ill- 
assorted  marriages  which  are  common  in  more  pros- 
perous parts  of  the  country.  About  Connemara,  the 
people,  having  nothing  to  lose,  marry  young — the 
women  under  twenty  generally.  The  Connacht 
woman  is  a  fine  type  and  must  impress  the  observer. 


VIII 

There  are  few  books  of  which  it  may  be  said  that 
in  them  is  the  secret  of  a  race.  Amongst  such  books 
is  "  The  Love-Songs  of  Connacht,"  a  volume  in  Dr 
Douglas  Hyde's  collection  "  The  Songs  of  Connacht." 
"  On  the  verge  of  inarticulateness  "  Mr  W.  B.  Yeats 
said  of  some  of  these  songs.  Made  by  peasant  men 
and  women,  the  songs  have  an  indeliberate  simplicity 
that  we  can  never  find  in  cultured  poetry.     They  have 


220  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  simplicity  of  nature,  but  they  have  also  the 
subtlety  of  passion.     A  girl  says  : — 

"  A  hundred  farewells  to  last  night; 
It's  my  grief  that  to-night  was  not  first." 

And  there  is  another  poem  that  gives  a  passion  the 
barest,  the  least  sophisticated  expression.  It  is 
called  "The  Brow  of  the  Red  Mountain."  A  girl 
speaks  : — 

"  I  am  sitting  up, 
Since  the  moon  rose  last  night. 
And  putting  down  a  fire 
And  ever  kindling  it  diligently  ; 
The  people  of  the  house  are  lying  down, 
And  I  am  by  myself  ; 
The  cocks  are  crowing, 
And  the  land  is  asleep  but  me. 
That  I  may  never  leave  the  world 
Till  I  loose  from  me  the  ill-luck, 
Till  I  have  cows  and  sheep. 
And  my  one  desire  of  a  boy. 
I  would  not  think  the  night  long. 
That  I  would  be  stretched  by  his  smooth  white  breast, 
And  sure  I  would  allow  the  race  of  Eve  after  that 
To  say  their  choice  thing  of  me.  .  .  .  The  curse  of  the  Son  of  God 
Upon  that  one  who  took  from  me  my  love, 
I  And  left  me  by  myself 
Every  single  long  night  in  misery. 
And,  0  young  boy, 

I  am  no  material  for  mockery  for  you  ; 
You  have  nothing  to  say 

Except  that  I  am  without  dowry.    You  are  not  my  love 
And  my  destruction  if  I  am  sorry  for  it ; 
And  if  I  am  without  cattle  I  am  able  to  lie  alone.  " 

And  here  is  an  exquisite  poem  which  Dr  Hyde  took 
down  from  the  mouth  of  an  old  woman  who  Hved  in  a 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  221 

hut  in  the  middle  of  a  Roscommon  bog.  Dr  Hyde's 
English  rendering  of  the  Gaelic  is  always  admirable. 
His  knowledge  of  the  dialect  used  by  EngUsh-speaking 
peasants  enables  him  to  give  a  translation  that  is 
close  to  idiomatic.  And  he  is  an  ingenious  metrical 
artist.  But  inevitably  this  translation  lacks  the 
exquisite  variety  of  sound  that  is  in  the  original : — 

*'  My  grief  on  the  sea, 

How  the  waves  of  it  roll ! 
They  come  between  me 
And  the  love  of  my  soul ! 

Abandoned,  forsaken 

To  trouble  and  care — 
WUl  the  sea  never  waken, 

Relief  from  despair. 

My  grief  and  my  trouble — 

Would  that  he  and  I  were 
In  the  province  of  Leinster 

Or  the  County  of  Clare. 

Were  I  and  my  darling — 

O  heart-bitter  wound — 
On  board  of  a  ship 

For  America  bound. 

On  a  green  bed  of  rushes 

All  last  night  I  lay, 
And  I  flung  it  abroad 

With  the  heat  of  the  day. 

And  my  love  came  behind  me —  ^ 

He  came  from  the  south ; 
His  breast  to  my  bosom, 

His  mouth  to  my  mouth." 

West  of  the  Shannon  one  can  still  find  life  as  primi- 
tive as  at  the  beginning  of  social  organisation.  The 
people  have  been  hindered  from  producing  a  material 


222  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

civilisation,  but  they  are  free  of  their  emotion  and 
their  imagination.  The  hard  conditions  of  Connacht 
Hfe  have  helped  the  Connacht  women  to  development 
and  personaUty.  The  size  of  the  holding  does  not 
permit  the  man  to  develop  his  constructive  and 
organising  faculty.  The  woman  becomes  the  per- 
sonaHty  amongst  the  Connacht  peasantry,  and  the 
civilisation  is  of  her  creating.  It  is  the  civilisation 
of  the  hearth.  One  cannot  fail  to  note  the  number 
of  words  for  "  child  "  in  constant  use  ;  there  is  a  word 
for  the  child  in  the  cradle,  the  child  creeping  on  the 
floor,  the  child  going  to  school,  the  growing  cliild — 
"  naoidhean,"  "  lanabh,"  "  malrach,"  "  piaste," — 
words  as  soft  and  as  intimate  as  a  caress.  The 
tragedies  of  Connacht  life  come  closest  to  the  woman. 
As  a  child  she  sees  the  sister  who  reared  her  leave 
home  for  America  ;  as  a  wife  she  Uves  alone  while  her 
husband  works  abroad,  and  often  her  child  is  born 
while  its  father  is  labouring  the  fields  of  England  or 
Scotland.  As  a  mother  she  sees  her  rearing  go  from 
her  as  they  grow  up.  In  the  book  of  love-songs  we 
find  that  in  the  world  of  passion  the  woman  is 
supreme.  Two  songs  placed  at  the  beginning  of  the 
collection  make  us  realise  the  difference  between  the 
man's  way  of  loving  and  the  woman's  way  of  loving. 
This  is  from  the  man's  song  : — 

"  How  well  for  the  birds  in  all  weather  ; 

They  rise  up  on  high  in  the  air, 
And  then  sleep  upon  one  bough  together, 

Without  sorrow,  or  trouble,  or  care  ; 
But  so  it  is  not  in  this  world 

With  myself  and  my  thousand-times  fair, 
Far  away,  far  apart  from  each  other, 

Each  day  rises  barren  and  bare." 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  223 

Contrast  this  charming  sentiment  with  the  truth 
and  power  of  the  woman's  song  : — 

"  My  heart  is  bruised  and  broken 
Like  the  ice-flag  on  the  top  of  the  water, 
As  it  were  a  cluster  of  nuts  after  their  breaking, 
Or  a  young  maiden  after  her  marrying. 

I  denounce  love,  woe  for  her  who  gave  it 
To  the  son  of  yon  woman,  who  never  understood  it. 
My  heart  in  my  middle,  sure  he  has  left  it  black, 
And  I  do  not  see  him  in  the  street  nor  in  any  place." 

The  contrast  between  the  man's  way  of  loving  and 
the  woman's  way  of  loving  goes  through  the  whole 
collection.  Here  is  the  prose  of  a  man's  song.  It 
has  exquisite  music  in  Irish  : — 

In  Ballinahinch,  in  the  West,  my  love  is  for  a  year ;  she  is 
more  exquisite  than  the  sun  of  autunm,  and  sure  honey  grows 
after  her  on  the  track  of  her  foot  on  the  mountain,  no  matter 
how  cold  the  time  after  November-day.  If  I  were  to  get  my 
desire  I  would  take  her  in  my  net,  and  I  would  put  away  from 
me  this  grief  and  trouble.  But  for  the  counsel  of  all  ever  born, 
I  shall  only  marry  my  desire ;  she  is  the  Moorneen  of  the  fair 
hair. 

We  have  charming  desire  beside  vehement  passion 
when  we  put  beside  this  a  woman's  song  : — 

And  farewell  henceforth  to  yon  town  westward  among  the 
trees ;  it  is  there  that  I  am  drawn  early  and  late.  Many  is  the 
wet,  dirty  morass  and  crooked  road  going  between  me  and  the 
town  where  my  treasure  is.  ...  0  Paddy,  are  you  sorry  that 
I  am  ill,  and  do  you  think  bad  of  it  that  I  am  going  to  the  church- 
yard ? 

0  Paddy  of  the  bound  black  hair  it  is  your  mouth  that  is 
sweet,  and  until  I  go  under  the  groimd  my  affection  will  be  on 
you  for  your  converse  with  me.  .  .  .  And  0  dear  Virgin  what 
shall  I  do  if  you  go  from  me  ?     I  have  no  knowledge  of  your 


224  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

house,  your  haggard,  or  your  stacks.  Ah,  faithful  was  the 
counsel  that  my  people  gave  me  not  to  elope  with  you,  for  you 
had  the  hundred  twists  in  your  heart  and  the  thousand  tricks. 

These  poems  have  natural  subtlety,  some  of  them 
have  intellectual  subtlety  also.  Some  of  the  peasant 
poems  show  exquisite  perception.  In  one  of  them 
the  lover  speaks  of  his  sweetheart  as  having  "  the 
little  hands  of  Mary "  (the  virgin),  and  he  says, 
"  The  sun  loses  its  heat  when  my  swan  goes  abroad, 
and  the  moon  makes  obeisance  to  her."  And  in 
another  peasant  poem  there  is  the  phrase  "  Her 
rose-ember  mouth." 

I  cannot  help  contrasting  "  The  Love  Songs  of 
Connacht "  with  a  collection  of  Roumanian  folk- 
poetry.  Ours  is  sHghter  in  volume,  but  when  we 
have  added  to  the  love  songs  our  religious  songs, 
our  keens  or  lamentations  for  the  dead,  our  poUtical 
songs  and  our  drinking  songs,  we  will  be  able  to  show 
a  collection  of  folk-poetry  as  bulky  as  "  the  Bard  o£ 
the  Dimbovitza."  In  the  poetry  of  the  two  countries 
the  external  life  presented  offers  the  first  contrast. 
The  people  move  in  gold,  in  sunshine,  in  the 
Roumanian  songs,  and  there  are  glowing  harvests 
and  blossoming  fruit  trees.  Girls  dance  under  acacia 
trees.  Outside  on  the  walls  of  the  houses  flowers 
are  painted.  The  hero  of  a  girl's  dream  rides  by  and 
the  lute-player  comes  to  the  door.  Grief  itself 
moves  amongst  gracious  things.  And  this  world 
is  sufficient.  There  is  no  burthen  of  an  invisible 
world.  Ghosts  come  but  they  are  from  the  grave 
only.  The  grave  is  a  pitiful  fact,  but  meantime 
the  living  are  free,  brave  and  joyous.  Not-being 
to  these  people  is  the  tragic  idea.     "  Barren,"  "  No 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  225 

Son,"    "  Stillborn,"   is   the   most    piercing   of    their 
songs. 

Different  indeed  is  the  world  of  the  Connacht  song. 
Here  external  life  is  bare,  and  he  who  would  put 
beauty  around  his  love  must  bring  it  from  afar. 
"  The  cuckoo  cries  in  the  winter  over  the  village 
where  she  is  living."  "  Honey  grows  behind  the 
track  of  her  feet  on  the  mountain,  and  it  seven  weeks 
after  November  day."  External  life  is  harsh.  "  Many 
is  the  wet  dirty  morass  and  crooked  road  going 
between  me  and  the  town  where  my  treasure  is." 
The  most  powerful  expressions  are  in  terms  of  this 
harshness  as  in  the  song  where  the  girl  says  that  her 
heart  is  bruised  and  broken  like  the  ice-flag  on  the 
top  of  water,  and  as  black  as  the  coal  that  would  be 
burnt  in  the  forge.  The  invisible  world  is  constantly 
obtruding.  The  makers  of  these  songs  have  religion 
in  the  blood,  and  passion  itself  must  speak  the 
language  of  religion. 

"  0  tlna,  0  maiden,  0  friend,  and  0  golden  tooth  ! 

0  little  mouth  that  never  uttered  an  injustice, 

1  had  rather  be  beside  her  on  a  couch,  ever  kissing  her, 
Than  to  be  sitting  in  Heaven  on  the  chair  of  the  Trinity  " — 

says  the  maker  of  one  of  the  poems,  but  he  is  well 
aware  of  his  blasphemy  : — 

"  0  fair  tlna,  it  is  you  that  set  astray  my  senses  ; 
0  Una  it  was  you  who  went  close  in  between  me  and  God ; 
0  Una,  fragrant  branch,  twisted  little  curl  of  the  ringlets, 
Was  it  not  better  for  me  to  be  without  eyes  than  ever  to  have 
seen  you." 

After  the  Roumanian  songs  with  their  agreeable 
and   abundant   life   and   their   tinge   of   pantheism, 


226  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  world  of  the  Connacht  songs  seems  primitive. 
And  yet  the  love  expressed  in  these  songs  is  a  subtle 
and  complex  emotion.  There  are  many  generations 
of  refinement  below  the  flowering  of  such  a  mood 
as  this  : — 

"  Ringleted  youth  of  my  love, 

With  thy  locks  bound  loosely  behind  thee, 
You  passed  by  the  road  above, 

But  you  never  came  in  to  find  me  ; 
Where  were  the  harm  for  you. 

If  you  came  for  a  little  to  see  me  ? 
Your  kiss  is  a  wakening  dew. 

Were  I  ever  so  ill  or  so  dreamy. 

I  thought,  0  my  love  !  you  were  so 

As  the  moon  is,  or  sun,  on  the  fountain, 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  snow. 

The  cold  snow  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  ; 
And  I  thought  after  that  you  were  more 

Like  God's  lamp  shining  to  find  me, 
Or  the  bright  star  of  knowledge  before, 

And  the  star  of  knowledge  behind  me. 

You  promised  me  high-heeled  shoes, 

And  satin  and  silk,  my  storeeu. 
And  to  follow  me,  never  to  lose 

Though  the  ocean  were  round  us  roaring ; 
Like  a  bush  in  a  gap  in  a  wall 

I  am  left  now  lonely  without  thee, 
And  this  house  I  grow  dead  of,  is  all 

That  I  see  around  or  about  me." 

The  Roumanian  folk-songs  have  a  quality  that  is 
not  in  the  Gaelic — profound  reflection.  They  have 
mascuUne  power  and  masculine  construction,  while 
the  Connacht  songs  have  feminine  intensity.    The 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  227 

end  of  the  Roumanian  poem,  "  No  Son,"  is  full  of 
grave  consideration : — 

"  Silent  was  she,  for  she  knew  not  how  to  answer ; 
Silent  were  both  our  hearts,  for  they  were  empty. 
Then  of  all  loneliness,  and  pain  and  sorrow, 
I  felt  myself  the  father — 

The  son  of  the  graves  I  felt  myself,  and  the  husband 
Of  yon  dumb  woman,  whose  womb  would  be  silent  ever 
As  were  our  hearts. 

Then,  that  we  might  forget  we  looked  at  the  furrows 
All  full  of  seed,  and  some  shoots  already  were  breaking 
Forth  from  the  furrows,  and  said,  '  We,  we  are  born,' 
Nor  did  one  of  us  ask  the  other  '  wherever  art  thou  looking,' 
We  only  looked  at  the  growing  seeds  together." 

Under  this  I  write  twelve  lines  that  are  alive  with  a 
moment's  intensity.  I  found  them  in  a  manuscript 
collection  of  Connacht  songs.  A  man  whose  name 
is  Bourke  has  been  killed.  Those  who  killed  him, 
evidently,  are  his  sisters'  husbands.  Bourke's  wife 
asks  the  sisters  to  come  to  the  table  : — 

"  Draw  near  to  the  table,  ye  that  wear  the  cloaks  ; 
Here  ye  have  flesh,  but  it  is  not  roast  flesh, 
Nor  boiled  in  pots,  nor  cooked  for  feasting. 
But  my  dear  Bourke — och,  och,  after  been  slain. 

You,  young  woman,  who  are  drinking  the  wine  there, 

Let  my  sharp  screeches  pierce  your  heart. 

If  I  am  wise  I  may  get  whatever  is  my  lot. 

But  you  will  never — och,  och,  och — get  another  brother  ! 

0  young  woman,  don't  you  pity  my  sorrow  ? 
My  mourning  over  the  bier  of  my  spouse  ? 
A  lock  of  his  hair  is  locked  within  my  purse, 
And  his  offspring — och,  och — hidden  within  me  !  " 


228  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

IX 

The  Death  of  the  Rich  Man 

It  was  a  road  as  shelterless  and  bare  as  any  road  in 
Connacht.  On  one  side  there  was  a  far- stretching 
bog,  on  the  other  side  Uttle  fields,  cold  with  tracts 
of  water.  You  faced  the  Connacht  hills,  bleak  and 
treeless,  with  Httle  streams  across  them  like  threads 
of  steel.  There  was  a  solitary  figure  on  the  road — 
a  woman  with  bare  feet  and  ragged  clothes.  She 
was  bent,  and  used  a  stick  ;  but  she  carried  herself 
swiftly,  and  had  something  of  a  challenge  in  her  face. 
Her  toothless  mouth  was  tightly  closed,  her  chin 
protruded,  wisps  of  hair  fell  about  her  distrustful 
eyes.  She  was  an  isolated  individual,  and  it  would 
be  hard  to  communicate  the  sensations  and  facts 
that  made  up  her  life.  Irish  speakers  would  call 
the  woman  a  "  shuler."  The  word  is  literally  the 
same  as  "  tramp,"  but  it  carries  no  anti-social  sug- 
gestion. None  of  the  lonely  cabins  about  would 
refuse  her  hospitality ;  she  would  get  shelter  for  the 
night  in  any  one  of  them,  the  sack  of  chaff  beside  the 
smouldering  fire,  the  share  in  the  household  bit. 
But  though  she  slept  by  their  fires  and  ate  their 
potatoes  and  salt,  this  woman  was  apart  from  them, 
and  apart  from  all  those  who  lived  in  houses,  who 
tilled  their  fields,  and  reared  up  sons  and  daughters  ; 
she  had  been  moulded  by  unkind  forces,  the  silence 
of  the  roads,  the  bitterness  of  the  winds,  the  long 
hours  of  hunger.  She  moved  swiftly  along  the 
shelterless  road,  muttering  to  herself,  for  the  appetite 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  229 

was  'plaining  within  her.  There  on  her  way  was  a 
certain  village,  but  before  going  through  it  she  would 
give  herself  a  while  of  contentment.  She  took  a 
short  pipe  out  of  her  pocket  and  sought  the  sheltered 
side  of  a  bush.  Then  she  drew  her  feet  under  her 
clothes  and  sucked  in  the  satisfaction  of  tobacco. 

You  may  be  sure  the  shuler  saw  through  the  village, 
though  her  gaze  was  across  the  road.  Midway  on 
the  village  street  there  was  a  great  house ;  it  was 
two  stories  above  the  cottages,  and  a  storey  higher 
than  the  other  shops.  It  was  set  high  above  its 
neighbours,  but  to  many  its  height  represented  effort, 
ability,  discipline.  It  was  the  house  of  Michael 
Gilsenin,  farmer,  shopkeeper,  local  councillor.  "  Gil- 
senin,  the  Gombeen  man,"  the  shuler  muttered,  and 
she  spat  out.  Now  the  phrase  "  Gombeen  man  " 
would  signify  a  grasping  peasant  dealer,  who  squeezed 
riches  out  of  the  poverty  of  his  class,  and  few  people 
spoke  of  Michael  Gilsenin  as  a  Gombeen  man ;  but 
his  townsmen  and  the  peasants  around  would  tell 
you  that  Michael  Gilsenin  had  the  open  hand  for  the 
poor,  and  that  he  never  denied  them  the  bag  of  meal, 
nor  the  sack  of  seed-potatoes ;  no,  nor  the  few 
pounds  that  w^ould  bring  a  boy  or  girl  the  prosperity 
of  America.  To  the  woman  on  the  ditch  Michael 
Gilsenin  was  the  very  embodiment  of  worldly  pros- 
perity. It  was  said — and  the  shuler  exclaimed  on 
Heaven  at  the  thought — that  Michael's  two  daughters 
would  receive  dowries  of  a  thousand  pounds  each. 
Michael  had  furnished  the  new  chapel  at  a  cost  of 
five  hundred  pounds ;  he  had  bought  recently  a 
great  stock  of  horses  and  cattle ;  he  had  built  sheds 
and  stables  behind  his  shop.     And  Michael  Gilsenin 


230  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

had  created  all  his  good  fortune  by  his  own  effort. 
The  shuler  wondered  what  bad  luck  eternal  Justice 
would  send  on  his  household  to  balance  this  pros- 
perity. And  in  her  backward-reaching  mind,  the 
shuler  could  rake  out  only  one  thing  to  Michael's 
discredit.  This  was  his  treatment  of  Thady,  his 
elder  brother.  It  was  Thady  who  owned  the  cabin 
and  the  farm  on  wliich  the  Gilsenins  had  begun  their 
lives.  Michael  had  reduced  his  grasping  and  slow- 
witted  brother  to  subordination,  and  he  had  used 
his  brother's  inheritance  to  forward  himself.  In  for- 
warding himself  Michael  had  forwarded  the  family, 
Thady  included,  and  now,  instead  of  life  in  a  cabin, 
Thady  had  a  place  in  a  great  house.  Michael  was  old 
now,  the  shuler  mused,  he  was  nearly  as  old  as  herself. 
It  was  well  for  those  who  would  come  after  him. 
His  daughters  had  dowries  that  made  them  the  talk 
of  Connacht,  and  his  son  would  succeed  to  stock, 
farms,  and  shop.  The  shuler  stretched  out  her  neck 
and  looked  down  the  road  and  in  to  the  village  street. 
She  saw  the  tall  grey  building,  the  house  of  stone 
with  the  slated  roof  and  the  many  windows.  And 
she  saw  a  man  hobbling  out  of  the  village.  He  had 
two  sticks  under  him  for  he  was  bent  with  the  pains. 
The  man  was  Thady  Gilsenin,  Michael's  brother. 

Thady  Gilsenin  was  grudging  and  hard-fisted  to 
the  beggars,  but  he  always  stayed  to  have  speech 
with  them.  His  affinities  were  with  these  people 
of  the  roads.  By  his  hardness  and  meanness,  by  his 
isolation  and  his  ailments,  he  was  kin  to  the  shuler 
and  her  like.  She  quenched  the  pipe,  liid  it  under 
her  clothes,  and  waited  for  Thady  Gilsenin. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  231 

He  stood  before  her,  a  grey  figure  leaning  on  two 
sticks.  His  hands  were  swollen  with  the  pains,  their 
joints  were  raised  and  shining. 

"  Well,  ma'am,"  said  Thady,  "  you're  round  this 
way  again,  I  see." 

"  My  coming  won't  be  any  loss  to  you,  Thady 
Gilsenin,"  the  shuler  returned. 

Thady  turned  round  and  looked  back  at  the  big 
house. 

"  And  how  is  the  decent  man,  your  brother  ?  " 
asked  the  shuler,  "  and  how  are  his  daughters,  the 
fine  growing  girls  ?  " 

"  His  fine  daughters  are  well  enough,"  said  Thady, 
turning  round. 

"  There  will  be  a  grand  marriage  here  some  day," 
said  the  shuler,  "  I'm  living  on  the  thought  of  that 
marriage." 

"  It's  not  marriage  that's  on  our  minds,"  Thady 
said,  in  a  resigned  way. 

The  shuler  was  quick  to  detect  something  in  his 
tone. 

"  Is  it  death  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Ay,  ma'am,  Death,"  said  Thady  ;  "  Death  comes 
to  us  all." 

"  And  is  it  Michael  that  is  likely  to  die  ?  " 

"  Michael  himself,"  said  Thady. 

This  to  the  tramp  was  as  the  news  of  revolution  to 
men  of  desperate  fortune.  The  death  of  Michael 
Gilsenin  would  be  a  revolution  with  spoils  and  without 
dangers.  She  was  thrilled  with  expectancy,  and  she 
said  aloud  :  "0  God,  receive  the  prayers  of  the  poor, 
and  be  merciful  to  Michael  Gilsenin  this  day  and  this 
night.     May  angels  watch  over  him.     May  he  receive 


232  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

a  portion  of  the  bed  of  heaven  through  the  gracious 
intercession  of  the  blessed  Mother  of  God.  May  he 
reign  in  splendour  through  eternity.  Amen,  amen, 
amen."  And  crying  out  this  she  rose  to  her  feet. 
"  I'm  going  to  his  house,"  she  said.  "  I'll  go  down 
on  my  two  knees  and  I'll  pray  for  the  soul  of  Michael 
Gilsenin,  the  man  who  was  good  to  the  poor."  She 
went  towards  the  village  striking  her  breast  and 
muttering  cries.  Thady  stood  for  a  moment,  looking 
after  her ;  then  he  began  to  hobble  forward  on  his 
two  sticks.  They  were  like  a  pair  of  old  crows, 
hopping  down  the  village,  towards  the  house  of 
Michael  Gilsenin. 

She  could  never  have  imagined  such  comforts  and 
conveniences  as  she  saw  now  in  the  chamber  of  the 
dying  man.  There  was  the  bed,  large  enough  to 
hold  three  people,  with  its  stiff  hanging  and  its  stiff 
counterpane,  its  fine  sheets,  its  blankets  and  quilt, 
its  heap  of  soft  pillows.  There  was  the  carpet  warm 
under  her  own  feet,  and  then  the  curtains  to  the 
window  that  shut  out  the  noise  and  the  glare.  A 
small  table  with  fruit  and  wine  was  by  the  bed, 
and  a  red  lamp  burnt  perpetually  before  the  image 
of  the  Sacred  Heart,  and  so  the  wasting  body  and 
the  awakening  soul  had  their  comforts  and  their  con- 
venience. Michael's  two  daughters  were  in  the  room. 
They  stood  there  broken  and  listless  ;  they  had  just 
come  out  of  the  convent  and  this  was  their  noviciate 
in  grief.  The  shuler  noted  how  rich  was  the  stuff 
in  their  black  dresses,  and  noted,  too,  their  white 
hands,  and  the  clever  shape  of  their  dresses.  As  for 
the  dying  man,  she  gave  no  heed  to  him  after  the 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  233 

first  encounter.  He  was  near  his  hour,  and  she  had 
looked  too  often  upon  the  coming  of  death. 

They  gave  her  a  bed  in  the  loft,  and  she  lay  that 
night  above  the  stable  that  was  back  of  the  great 
house.  She  had  warmed  herself  by  the  kitchen  fire, 
and  had  taken  her  fill  of  tea,  and  now  she  smoked 
and  mused,  well  satisfied  with  herself.  "  This  night 
I'm  better  off  than  the  man  in  the  wide  bed,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  I'm  better  off  than  you  this  night, 
Michael  Gilsenin,  for  all  your  lands  and  shops  and 
well-dressed  daughters.  I'm  better  off  than  you 
this  night,  Michael  Gilsenin,  for  all  your  stock  and 
riches.  Faith,  I  can  hear  your  cattle  stir  in  the  sheds, 
and  in  a  while  you  won't  even  hear  the  rain  upon  the 
grass.  You  have  children  to  come  after  you,  Michael 
Gilsenin,  but  that's  not  much  after  all,  for  they'll 
forget  you  when  they've  come  from  the  burial.  Ay, 
they  will  in  troth  !  I've  forgotten  the  man  that 
lay  beside  me,  and  the  child  that  I  carried  in  my 
arms."  She  pulled  a  sack  over  her  feet  and  knees 
and  up  to  the  waist,  and  sleep  came  to  her  on  the 
straw.  But  she  was  awake  and  felt  the  tremor 
through  the  house,  when  Death  came  and  took  his 
dues.  From  that  onward  her  sleep  was  broken,  for 
people  had  come  and  horses  were  being  brought  out 
of  the  stable.  Once  old  Thady  came  out,  and  the 
shuler  heard  him  mutter  about  the  loss  in  hay  and 
oats. 

When  she  came  down  to  the  yard  she  saw  a  well- 
dressed  young  man  tending  his  horse.  One  of 
Michael's  daughters  came  and  stood  with  the  young 
man,  and  the  two  talked  earnestly  together.  The 
shuler  knelt  down  on  a  flag  and  began  sobbing  and 


234  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

clapping  her  hands,  she  was  working  up  to  a  paroxysm, 
but  gradually,  for  she  wanted  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  pair  without  distressing  them  overmuch. 
The  girl  went  indoors,  and  the  young  man  followed 
her.  The  shuler  saw  two  empty  bottles  ;  they  were 
worth  a  penny.  She  hid  them  under  her  dress  and 
went  into  the  house.  She  made  her  way  to  the 
front  door,  passing  by  many.  People  of  importance 
were  coming,  and  in  such  an  assembly  something 
surely  would  be  gained.  She  stood  by  the  street 
door  and  watched  the  great  people  come,  priests, 
doctors,  lawyers,  shopkeepers  and  councillors.  She 
stood  there  like  an  old  carrion  bird,  her  eyes  were 
keen  with  greed,  and  her  outstretched  hand  was 
shaking.  She  heard  old  Thady  saying,  "  Now, 
thank  God,  we  can  be  clear  for  the  day  of  the  fair. 
I  was  thinking  that  he  would  still  be  with  us  on  the 
fair  day,  and  we  would  have  to  close  the  shop,  and 
that  would  be  a  great  loss  to  us.  Now  we  can  have 
everything  cleared  off  in  time.  God  be  good  to 
Michael's  soul." 


X 

The  priest  turned  from  the  altar  and  delivered  the 
Gospel  to  the  people  ;  he  was  a  peasant  and  built  on 
enduring  primitive  hues,  but  old  age  had  overtaken 
him,  and  there  was  weariness  and  feebleness  in  his 
attitude  and  speech.  He  was  translating  the  Gospel 
into  the  tongue  of  the  people,  and  his  labour  gave  the 
words  a  pathetic  appeal.  Earnestly  and  with  effort 
he  related  the  Gospel  story,  and  the  language  he  used, 
the  speech  of  peasants  and  fishermen,  brought  one 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  235 

back  to  the  Gospel  age.  He  told  the  story  of  the 
Apostles'  vision,  the  Saviour  walkmg  the  waters,  and 
the  words,  "  Let  fear  not  be  on  ye,"  seemed  more 
intimate,  more  comforting  in  the  endearing  Irish 
speech.  He  preached  for  a  while  from  the  text,  and 
then,  without  any  lapse  from  earnestness  or  dignity, 
went  on  to  speak  about  the  crops,  about  the  necessity 
for  spraying  the  potatoes,  about  an  offer  made  to  the 
district  through  one  of  the  Government  Departments. 
Then  he  spoke  for  a  while  about  the  death  of  a  man 
well  known  to  all  the  people,  a  man  who  was  of  the 
priest's  own  blood  and  name.  He  returned  to  the 
Gospel  text,  and  said  again,  feebly  and  heavily,  "  Let 
fear  not  be  on  ye." 

The  people  did  not  disperse  after  mass ;  they 
waited  about  the  village  and  near  the  chapel  to  attend 
the  burial.  The  girls  went  into  the  houses  in  the 
village,  and  the  young  men  stood  together  gossiping 
or  telling  stories.  The  devotees  went  into  the  house 
where  the  dead  was  laid  out,  and  a  few  old  men  and 
women  lingered  in  the  chapel  yard  to  repeat  the 
traditional  prayer  on  leaving  mass  : — 

"  Christ,  farewell,  Mary,  farewell ! 
The  Apostles  keep  me  till  I  come  again  !  " 

It  was  a  day  that  might  have  been  consecrated  to 
some  village  festival.  The  summer  had  come  with 
warmth  and  light  and  ease,  and  the  corn  stood  high 
in  quiet  attainment.  The  children  were  happy  in 
their  holiday  dresses.  Those  beautiful  Connacht 
children  had  nobler  promise  than  the  growing  corn 
or  the  dehghtful  day. 
The  coffin  was  borne  out  on  men's  shoulders,  and 


236  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  people  fell  into  order  and  moved  after  the  bearers. 
Their  way  was  across  fields  to  a  churchyard  that  held 
many  generations  of  their  dead.  And  now  the 
children  pulled  woodbine  out  of  the  hedges  and 
plucked  the  foxglove  that  stood  high  in  the  ditches. 
The  procession  moved  as  though  the  people  were 
taking  part  in  some  grave  idyll.  In  that  procession 
one  could  see  a  representation  of  the  life  and  history 
of  peasant  Ireland. 

Old  men  tramped  resolutely  on.  They  lived  by 
earnestness  and  hope,  and  their  bowed  shoulders  and 
hanging,  uncouth  hands  brought  a  religious  element 
into  the  funeral  procession.  They  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  moulded  by  a  common  force,  but  many  of 
them  had  come  back  to  their  httle  patch  of  land  from 
the  streets  of  New  York,  from  the  dockyards  of 
England,  from  the  factories  of  Scotland.  Beside 
these  old  peasants  walked  men  of  a  different  world, 
their  sons  and  nephews  who  were  back  from  America 
for  a  season.  These  Irish-Americans  looked  prosper- 
ous and  effectual,  powerful  of  mouth  and  jaw.  The 
people  near  the  coffin  were  from  the  country  towns  ; 
they  were  types  of  those  who  had  profited  by  the 
social  revolution.  The  young  men  of  the  peasantry 
looked  keen  and  ready  ;  they  were  exuberant  on  the 
surface,  secretive  in  the  depths.  The  young  girls 
and  the  old  women  still  wore  the  peasant  shawl ; 
amongst  the  women,  too,  there  were  returned 
emigrants,  bringing  with  them  dresses  and  fashions 
that  were  incongruous  here.  These  women  had 
marked  individuahties ;  they  were  the  unconscious 
guardians  of  a  civilisation  that  had  been  swept  from 
all  places  except  the  hearth. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  237 

The  coffin  had  been  borne  through  the  gate,  and 
while  the  people  were  still  crossing  the  fields  they 
heard  the  lament  for  the  dead.  It  rose  suddenly,  a 
savage  abandonment  to  grief.  Other  voices  joined 
in,  and  the  caoine  took  on  its  rhythmical,  monotonous 
form.  The  voice  of  the  women  became  remote  and 
unfamiliar,  and  then  one  heard  the  veritable  cry  that 
has  gone  up  from  every  field  in  Europe  and  Asia,  the 
cry  that  has  a  memory  of  all  grief,  the  sorrow  of 
fathers  for  their  strong  sons,  the  heartbreak  of  women 
for  their  husbands  and  homes,  the  desolation  and 
despair  of  broken  clans.  The  people  entered  the 
graveyard  with  that  monotonous  lament  beating 
at  their  hearts.  And  now,  in  the  beautiful  GaeUc 
phrase,  they  were  in  the  Meadow  of  the  Dead.  The 
grass  was  high  and  green  over  the  ridges  of  graves, 
and  ash  trees  with  youthful  branches  and  leaves 
joyous  in  the  sunUght  grew  above  the  dead.  A 
woman  left  the  throng  and  hurried  amongst  the 
graves  calling  out  to  her  dead.  Then  many  went 
amongst  the  graves,  some  hurriedly,  some  slowly  and 
reluctantly.  Clay  fell  on  the  coffin  of  the  newly  dead, 
but  the  sound  was  lost  in  a  general  lamentation. 
Old  and  young,  men  and  women,  wept  for  their 
kindred.  Some,  in  the  vehemence  of  their  grief, 
broke  branches  from  the  trees,  and  the  green  boughs 
of  the  ash  were  strewn  upon  the  graves. 

It  was  no  longer  a  lament  for  one  man  dead,  it  was 
a  mourning  for  the  dead  generally,  for  the  fact  of 
death.  So  thought  one  who  moved  amongst  the 
graves,  an  onlooker.  Then  one  figure  brought  the 
sorrow  to  his  heart  as  with  a  direct  utterance.  This 
was  the  figure  of  a  girl  who  knelt  by  a  grave.     She 


238  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

was  massively  and  nobly  formed,  and  in  her  dark 
face  there  was  an  unreaHsed  force,  a  slumbering 
passion.  She  belonged  to  the  dark  type  that  is  called 
Spanish  in  the  West  of  Ireland,  which  is  Iberian 
perhaps,  and  belonging  to  the  people  whom  the  new- 
coming  Milesians  described  as  Firbolgs.  She  knelt 
by  the  grave  of  a  >''oung  man,  weeping  silently, 
without  the  caoine. 


XI 

"  We  have  '  Yanks  '  golore,"  the  people  of  Connacht 
say,  corrupting  their  Irish  with  that  ugly  word.  At 
every  market  there  are  hard-featured  men  and  groups 
of  young  women  in  hats  and  flounced  dresses.  A  few 
of  the  men  and  women  will  settle  down  and  become  re- 
Hibernicised,  but  the  great  majority  will  take  flight 
in  September,  returning  to  Chicago,  New  York,  or 
Boston. 

We  are  at  a  cehdh  (social  gathering)  in  a  Uttle 
Connacht  house.  Two  men  are  sitting  apart,  talking 
very  quietly.  Given  a  photograph  of  the  pair,  it 
would  be  hard  to  guess  their  nationality.  They  are 
both  well  dressed,  showing  good  Unen,  with  studs  and 
links.  The  younger  of  the  two,  a  man  with  veiled 
eyes,  an  olive  face,  and  waxed  moustache,  looks  Hke 
a  South  European.  In  regard  to  their  surroundings 
both  faces  have  detachment  and  reserve.  They  are 
talking  in  a  language  that  is  not  English.  The 
syllables  are  harsh  and  satirical  in  the  mouth  of  the 
elder  man ;  they  flow  on  soft  and  elusive  in  the 
mouth  of  the  youth.     They  are  talking  in  Irish  about 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  239 

American  elections  and  the  subterranean  politics  of 
New  York.  The  younger  man  rises,  and  as  a  stranger 
joins  in  the  dance.  The  other  sits  in  the  corner, 
plajdng  with  his  watch-chain  and  drinking  his  whisky. 
He  is  the  son  of  the  woman  of  the  house,  of  that  very 
active  little  woman  who  sits  by  the  fire  carding  wool. 

Peter  Hanlon  owns  a  saloon  in  New  York,  and  this 
is  his  first  visit  home  in  ten  years.  He  looks  hke  a 
man  who  has  dealt  with  the  toughest  elements. 
There  is  a  streak  of  power  in  him  which  might  turn 
to  violence  and  oppression.  He  is  an  uneducated 
man  and  is  often  baffled  on  the  plane  of  intellect. 
These  defeats  make  him  sullen  at  first,  and  after- 
wards cause  him  to  exercise  his  satirical  powers.  Like 
most  of  the  "  Yanks  "  he  is  ostentatious  of  his  wealth. 
It  is  known  that  he  is  on  the  look-out  for  a  wife  from 
amongst  the  country  girls.  He  does  not  want  any 
woman  who  has  been  in  America.  He  remains  aloof 
from  the  entertainment,  but  occasionally  he  is  taken 
by  the  verse  of  a  song  or  a  name  in  an  anecdote.  It 
is  a  curious  fact  that  he  has  more  of  the  folk-songs 
than  the  young  men  who  have  remained  at  home. 
He  has  intimacy  with  the  old  life,  for  the  reason  that 
in  America  he  lives  amongst  the  people  of  his  village  ; 
he  remembers  songs,  anecdotes,  and  characters 
because  he  has  had  no  new  mental  or  emotional 
experiences. 

A  stranger  in  the  house,  a  girl  who  is  an  instructress 
in  lacemaking,  ventures  on  the  remark  that  people 
should  strive  to  stay  in  Ireland.  Peter  Hanlon  turns 
on  her.  "  Why  would  anyone  stay  here  ?  There 
isn't  potatoes  and  salt  for  the  people.  There  is 
nothing  here  but  starvation."     He  rises  and  throws 


240  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

open  the  door.  "  Do  you  see  the  Ughts  below  ?  I 
mind  the  time  when  there  were  dozens  of  Hghts 
where  there  are  only  three  or  four  now."  He  speaks 
angrily,  as  if  he  had  a  grievance  against  Ireland 
and  were  glad  of  the  loss  of  its  population.  To  sug- 
gest that  there  are  possibiUties  in  the  country  is  to 
detract  from  his  success.  Men  Uke  Peter  Hanlon 
come  back  amongst  a  people  who  knew  them  as  bare- 
footed boys  running  the  roads,  and  they  feel  that  their 
superiority  must  be  unquestioned.  They  think  of 
Ireland  as  a  stepmother  who  starved  and  degraded 
them.  They  think  of  America  as  a  country  that 
arouses  their  will  and  their  strongest  capacity.  To 
them  Ireland  is  a  futile  little  Island  subject  to  a  people 
more  foreign  to  Irish-America  than  Germans,  Poles, 
or  Hungarians.  They  think  that  the  people  of  Ireland 
live  on  doles  from  American  relatives,  and  that  their 
pohtical  movements  are  mere  excuses  for  getting 
contributions  from  the  States.  Peter  Hanlon  is 
angry  that  he  should  be  challenged  amongst  the 
peasants.  He  goes  into  the  room  and  is  joined  by 
the  other  "  Yank,"  his  cousin.  They  sit  down  to  a 
silent  game  of  cards. 

Meanwhile  the  Ufe  of  the  little  cabin  goes  on. 
Michael,  Peter's  young  brother,  sits  on  the  settle, 
occasionally  joining  in  the  talk.  He  is  a  soft-looking 
young  man  who  spends  his  Ufe  on  the  little  farm. 
The  fields  are  so  small  that  a  plough  cannot  be  used 
on  them,  and  all  the  labour  has  to  be  done  with 
Michael's  spade.  Out  of  the  cold  of  the  evening  two 
Uttle  girls  come.  They  are  the  grandchildren  of  the 
old  woman.  Bare-footed,  they  have  been  herding 
the  20 ws  along  the  empty  road.     Now  the  cows  have 


p^ 


) 

ic 

r 

ih 

5  ^ 

o 

s  1 

MY  IRISH  YEAR  241 

come  home  and  the  children  sit  down  to  the  warmth 
and  gaiety  of  the  evening.     More  visitors  come  to  fill 
up  the  Httle  place ;    two  of  the  girls  are  "  Yanks." 
They  have  loud  voices,  and  they  mix  American  slang 
with   their   Irish    and   English.     Their    speech    and 
manners  are  an  intrusion,  but  these  girls  are  devoted 
daughters  and  sisters  whose  earnings  have  kept  homes 
together.     The  devotion  of  the  emigrant — a  devotion 
to  family,  not  to  country — shows  best  in  the  women. 
The  girls  are  anxious  to  talk  with  the  teacher,  and 
their  conversation  reveals  an  extraordinary  ignorance 
of  Ireland.     They  are  interested  to  hear  that  Dublin 
has  a  population  of  some  hundred  thousands,  that 
the  streets  are  paved,  that  electric  cars  run  in  the 
city.    They  know  something  of  American  institutions 
and  American  history,  but  of  Irish  ideals  and  Irish 
history  they  know  nothing.     One  of  the  girls  has  read 
about   Robert   Emmet  in  an  American  newspaper. 
Parnell  and  Daniel  O'Connell  are  names  to  them. 
The  "  Yank  "  girls  are  less  youthful  than  girls  of 
the  same  age  who  stay  at  home.     They  look  worn. 
Many  of  them  who  come  on  a  visit  are  anxious  to 
marry  and  settle  at  home.     Their  savings  make  a 
fortune  larger  than  the  dowries  that  go  with  the 
daughters  of  the  smaller  farmers,  but  in  spite  of  their 
dowries  the  young  men  do  not  regard  them  as  desir- 
able matches.     Their  life  in  America  has  aged  them, 
and  they  have  come  to  dislike  the  crudeness  of  the 
farm.     The  girls,  servants  in  good  American  houses, 
have  an  effect  on  the  domestic  economy  of  the  country. 
They  bring  in  better  cookery,  and  they  initiate  better 
household  arrangements.     Generally,  on  their  return, 
they  bring  a  brother  or  sister  with  them. 
Q 


U2  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Meantime  the  "  Yanks "  are  six  weeks  from 
September,  when  they  return  on  the  big  liner.  The 
girls  contrive  to  amuse  themselves,  but  towards  the 
end  they  become  restless  for  the  start.  The  men 
attend  the  fairs  and  markets,  and  in  the  intervals  try 
to  give  themselves  the  illusion  that  the  village  public- 
house  is  a  New  York  saloon.  Peter  Hanlon  stays  in 
his  mother's  cabin,  and  sometimes  he  tries  to  evoke 
an  interest  in  the  turf  and  the  pigs.  He  stands  in 
one  of  the  little  fields,  behind  a  wall  of  loosely  piled 
stones,  a  heavy  look  on  his  face. 


XII 

A  girl  whom  I  knew  came  into  the  shop  I  frequented 
when  in  that  part  of  the  West  of  Ireland.  Her 
greeting  was  constrained  and  she  stood  silent  and 
apart,  with  a  shawl  across  her  head.  She  had  taken 
me  to  many  festivities  during  the  months  I  was  in 
that  place.  I  came  over  and  spoke  to  her  in  Irish : 
"  When  will  there  be  a  dance  in  your  village,"  I  asked. 
"  There's  a  dance  to-night,"  she  said,  "  if  you  would 
care  to  come."  "Is  it  at  the  Stones  ?  "  "  No,  it's 
at  our  house.     It's  the  night  of  my  own  wake." 

She  did  not  use  the  word  in  its  generally  accepted 
sense.  In  some  of  the  Irish-speaking  districts  the 
word  "  Wake  "  has  come  to  signify  the  last  gathering 
around  the  boy  or  girl  who  is  leaving  the  village  for 
Boston  or  New  York.  Grania  was  in  the  shop,  to 
buy  provisions  for  her  American  wake.  I  had  seen 
another  part  of  Peasant  Ireland  denuded  of  its  vitality 
by  emigration,  and  I  thought  of  Grania  as  typical 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  243 

of  the  robust,  handsome  and  high-spirited  youth, 
who  go  away  and  become  lost  in  the  commonness 
of  America  or  return  to  Ireland  for  a  while,  vulgarised 
and  dissatisfied.  She  bade  good-bye  to  those  in  the 
shop  and  gave  me  the  word  to  come  with  her.  Our 
path  was  between  walls  of  loose  stones  that  went 
across  a  country  strewn  with  boulders.  On  account 
of  these  bare  surfaces  of  rock  the  landscape  was  toned 
with  greyness.  There  was  no  luminary  in  the  early 
night ;  the  full  moon  was  gone  and  the  new  moon 
had  not  made  its  appearance.  It  is  customary  in 
this  part  of  the  country  to  use  the  English  word 
"  village  "  as  the  equivalent  of  their  area  of  com- 
munity. But  the  picture  brought  up  by  the  word 
has  no  relation  to  their  scattered  hamlet.  The 
houses  were  scattered  through  miles  of  uneven 
territory,  and  no  roof  was  visible  from  the  door  of 
another  house. 

We  met  Grania's  mother  before  we  came  to  the 
house.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who  smile  as 
though  they  did  not  understand  what  was  happen- 
ing or  what  was  being  said.  She  was  silent  and 
smiled  as  though  speech  had  been  frightened  from 
her.  The  father  greeted  me  at  the  door  and  brought 
me  to  the  circle  that  was  round  the  fire.  He  was 
a  stolid  and  silent  man.  Another  old  man  at  the 
fire  spoke  eloquently  and  passionately  in  Irish. 
"  Every  man  has  his  rearing,  except  the  poor  Irish- 
man. This  is  the  way  with  him.  When  his  children 
grow  up,  they  scatter  from  him  like  the  little  birds." 
Grania  had  taken  off  her  shawl  and  was  busy  in  the 
household  duties.  There  was  some  intensity  in  her 
manner,  but  she  made  herself  pleasant  and  capable. 


244  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

While  I  waited  a  remarkable  person  engaged  me  in 
polite  conversation.  She  was  a  woman  between 
fifty  and  sixty,  with  a  wide-shaped  mouth  and 
tolerant  worldly  eyes.  She  had  the  manners  of  an 
aristocrat  and  the  faculty  of  being  amused  by  her 
fellow- creatures.  Her  manners  were  designed  to 
show  an  overwhelming  interest  in  the  person  whom 
she  addressed,  but  it  was  hard  to  say  whether  she 
laughed  with  you  or  laughed  at  you.  There  was 
salt  in  her  conversation,  and  she  was  witty  in  two 
languages. 

Tea  was  served  in  the  upper  room,  and  I  went  there 
as  the  young  people  were  beginning  to  arrive.  This 
sleeping  room  was  expressive  of  the  influences  that 
are  changing  Irish  rural  life.  There  was  an  open 
American  trunk,  and  dresses  sent  from  New  York 
or  Boston  were  lying  on  the  bed.  On  the  wall  was 
a  fine  mirror  that  would  have  been  in  its  place  in 
the  dressing-room  of  an  actress.  Visitors  had  been 
coming,  singly  and  in  couples,  and  on  going  back  to 
the  kitchen  I  encountered  something  like  a  mob. 
People  were  standing  three-deep  from  the  walls. 
I  heard  a  discord  of  music  and  song,  the  clash  of 
grave  speaking  with  loud-tongued  humour,  of  gossip 
and  boisterous  flirtation,  of  American  nasals  and  full- 
sounding  Gaelic  vowels.  The  children  crowded  to- 
gether in  the  recess  of  the  wide  chimney,  and  the  old 
people  kept  going  into  and  coming  out  of  the  inner 
room.  People  were  speaking  of  a  dance,  but  a 
stranger  would  wonder  whether  there  was  room  for  a 
dance  between  the  dresser  and  the  fire  on  the  hearth, 
between  the  table  and  the  meal  bins.  Grania  drew 
out  the  partners  for  the  girls,  arranged  the  dance. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  245 

and  induced  a  quiet  man  to  play  on  the  flute.  The 
figures  in  the  dance  were  complicated,  but  even  the 
swinging  of  the  partners  was  accomplished  with 
safety. 

After  some  rounds  of  dancing,  songs  were  given. 
EngHsh  words  were  most  in  the  fashion.  Some  of 
the  songs  were  in  the  Irish  tradition,  some  had  been 
brought  home  by  the  workers  in  Scotland  or  England, 
and  some  had  come  out  of  American  music  halls. 
I  pressed  for  one  of  their  own  traditional  songs.  I 
could  not  make  an  advance  in  kind,  but  I  recited  a 
poem  in  Irish,  and  after  that  the  company  were  in- 
chned  to  my  request.  A  young  man  whom  I  had 
noticed  for  his  satirical  powers  stood  up  for  the  song. 
It  was  of  the  locality,  and  it  satirised  a  person  whose 
character  had  comic  associations  for  the  company. 
The  narrative  begins  in  the  house  of  Shawn,  the 
person  satirised.  It  is  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
and  Shawn  and  his  dependants  are  in  their  beds. 
Some  one  gives  the  alarm — the  cow  has  gone  astray. 
Shawn  rises  and  in  the  dark  gropes  for  his  garments. 
And  Shawn  and  his  adherents  are  off  on  the  quest. 
Alone  he  finds  his  cow.  He  waits  till  dawn,  and  then 
takes  the  homeward  trail.  Now  he  is  in  need  of  rest 
and  refreshment.  He  comes  to  a  lonely  house  and 
is  admitted.  A  single  woman  entertains  him,  and  a 
district,  awakened  by  the  commotion  of  the  search, 
sees  Shawn,  the  guileless  man,  leave  the  house  at  an 
ambiguous  hour.  To  save  the  good  name  of  the 
district  he  and  the  woman  marry.  In  this  way 
Shawn  gets  his  wife.  The  song  set  forth  a  comedy 
of  manners  and  it  was  received  with  applause.  When 
it  was  over  I  discovered  that  the  singer  was  the 


246  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

maker,  and  that  he  was  noted  through  the  countryside 
for  his  stinging  ranns.  A  young  and  handsome  boy 
sang  another  ballad  in  Irish.  It  was  the  lament  of 
a  man  who  had  been  put  into  prison,  "  Not  for  killing, 
not  for  stealing,  but  for  making  the  brew  that  pays 
no  duty."  "  My  hair  was  cropped  round  my  ears, 
and  ugly  clothes  were  put  upon  me.  For  nine  months 
I  was  there,  without  company,  without  music." 
The  last  phrase  was  a  flash  of  the  Celtic  spirit.  It 
brought  to  my  mind  a  romance  of  the  Heroic  Age, 
in  which  one  of  the  Fianna  complains,  "  For  three 
days  we  were  in  the  pit  without  food,  without  drink, 
without  music." 

The  night  wore  on  with  dance  and  song,  with 
challenge  and  repartee.  Grania  left  us  and  stayed 
in  the  upper  room  for  a  while.  When  she  returned 
she  was  in  wild  spirits  and  set  about  forming 
another  dance.  The  orchestra  was  changed  for  this. 
She  brought  down  a  fiddle  and  a  young  man  under- 
took to  play.  Only  the  wildest  spirits  were  in  this 
last  dance  that  was  on  the  skirts  of  the  creeping  day. 
Before  the  dance  ended  Grania's  brother  went  from 
us,  and  we  saw  him  take  the  harness  down  from  the 
wall.  It  was  an  action  as  significant  as  anything  in 
drama.  The  dance  went  on,  but  we  heard  the  stamp 
of  the  awakened  horse  and  the  rattle  of  the  harness 
as  the  conveyance  was  made  ready  for  the  journey. 
The  dance  fluttered  out.  Through  the  little  window 
the  trees  became  visible,  then  we  saw  colour,  the 
green  of  the  grass  and  the  green  of  the  leaves. 
Grania  left  the  revellers  and  went  into  the  room  where 
her  mother  was  busy.  All  of  us  who  were  in  the 
kitchen  went  outside,  so  that  those  who  were  parting 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  247 

would  have  the  place  to  themselves.  In  the  morning 
world  the  corncrakes  were  crying  through  the 
meadows.  They  were  quiet  in  the  house  now,  and 
the  chirrup  of  dawn  made  me  wish  for  the  overcoat 
I  had  left  within.  I  went  inside.  After  the  vivid 
life  I  felt  the  emptiness  of  the  kitchen :  the  fire 
had  burnt  to  ashes  and  the  broad  light  through  the 
window  was  on  the  flame  of  the  lamp.  As  I  was 
going  out  Grania  came  down,  dressed  for  the  journey. 
The  poor  girl  was  changed.  She  was  dazed  with 
grief. 

She  sat  on  the  cart  that  went  down  the  stony  road, 
and  the  remnant  of  the  company  followed.  Further 
on  they  would  meet  more  carts  with  other  emigrants, 
boys  and  girls.  The  cart  jogged  itself  on  to  the  main 
road ;  as  yet  there  was  only  a  single  figure  on  the 
way,  a  man  driving  a  cow  to  some  far-off  fair.  We 
bade  good-bye  to  Grania  and  separated.  On  my 
way  back  I  passed  her  house  ;  it  was  soundless  and 
closed  in  as  if  the  house  had  not  yet  wakened  into 
Hfe. 


XIII 

It  was  in  a  village  in  the  West  of  Ireland.  Three 
men  withdrawing  themselves  from  the  business  of 
the  fair  gave  themselves  up  to  its  festivity.  The 
sympathetic  bond  was  close,  and  now  the  common 
mind  of  the  trio  was  disposed  to  regard  itself  as  the 
arbiter  of  things  musical.  They  had  drawn  a  stranger 
piper  to  their  station  before  Flynn's  public-house, 
and  they  listened  to  his  music  with  faces  that  might 


248  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

have  damped  a  musicians'  enthusiasm.  But  the 
piper  was  bhnd. 

He  finished  the  piece  and  turned  to  his  patrons 
with  the  ardour  that  was  the  very  colour  of  his  hfe. 
"  There's  the  tune  for  you  now,"  he  cried,  "  and 
I  couldn't  play  it  better  if  you  were  to  pay  me  a 
hundred  pounds."  Thomas  Bacach,  the  lame  flute- 
player,  removed  a  pipe  from  his  own  mouth  and  said 
deliberately,  "  We're  not  going  to  pay  you  a  hundred 
pounds,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  we  have  heard  that 
tune  better  played."  Kavanagh  and  young  O'Hart 
concurred ;  they  could  say  that  they  had  heard  the 
playing  of  them  that  were  of  the  breed  of  pipers, 
the  Griffins  and  the  Joyces. 

"  I  won't  ask  for  the  hundred  pounds  this  time," 
said  the  blind  piper,'  "  but  give  me  the  little  provision 
for  the  road." 

The  flute-player  had  silver  in  his  pocket  since 
Sunday's  dance,  and  he  was  content  to  patronise  the 
strange  musician.  "  We're  not  done  with  you  yet," 
said  he.  "  We  think  that  from  the  look  of  you,  you 
could  give  us  a  good  song." 

The  musician  had  another  in  the  audience  besides 
his  three  patrons.  A  slovenly-looking  old  man  had 
been  standing  in  the  background,  he  shuffled  up  to 
the  musician  now,  and  stood  beside  him,  panting  like 
an  old  sheep.  "  Who's  there  ?  "  cried  the  piper, 
turning  his  attentive  face  on  the  ignoble  apparition. 
The  pauper's  bag  hung  across  the  old  fellow's  back, 
and  a  shrivelled,  shaking  hand  was  upon  his  staff. 

"  Who  is  he  ?  "  said  the  flute-player.  "  A  poor 
man  that  gets  his  living  here  and  there.  Lift  up  the 
song  now,  and  let  us  hear  the  words  of  it,  straight 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  249 

and  plain."  With  a  little  preparation  the  musician 
began  the  lay.  It  was  a  dramatic  recitation  rather 
than  a  song.  The  piece  was  in  Irish,  and  it  told  of 
a  man  who  meets  a  woman  of  The  Other  People, 
a  fairy  woman  who  proffers  love  to  him.  Told  by 
the  piper  the  narrative  was  convincing,  for  his  ardour 
created  the  scene  before  you,  and  besides,  he  looked 
Hke  one  who  might  have  met  with  such  an  adventure. 
He  had  the  face  of  one  who  lived  in  the  poet's  in- 
tellectual world,  and  age  and  bhndness  had  left  him 
heroic,  childlike,  and  glad.  He  related  how  the 
man  of  the  adventure  became  in  dread,  now  dis- 
praised himself  by  saying  that  he  was  peevish  and 
ill-mannered  and  without  the  power  of  pleasing 
women.  The  musician  went  on,  but  it  was  soon 
apparent  that  he  had  wandered  into  another  narra- 
tive. "  Easy  now,"  said  Thomas  Bacach,  "  tell  us 
what  the  fairy  woman  did  to  the  man." 

"  Begob,  I'm  past  that,"  said  the  piper. 

If  you  had  been  watching  the  old  pauper  you 
would  have  said  that  a  muddied  thaw  had  set  in 
within  his  brain,  and  that  the  pressure  was  Hke  to 
burst  his  eyeballs.  Looking  absurdly  fierce  he  said : 
"  She — sh —  said  it's — it's — a  wonder  you  talk  to  me 
Hke  that " 

"  That's  it,"  cried  the  piper.  "  It's  a  wonder  you 
talk  to  me  like  that,  you  knowing  all  the  great  kings 
I  have  destroyed."  He  went  back  to  the  mortal's 
excuses,  and  finished  the  poem  with  its  fine  imagina- 
tive cHmax.  He  tucked  the  pipes  under  his  arm 
and  stretched  out  his  hat,  gaining  pence  apiece  from 
his  patrons.  He  put  out  his  arm  for  guidance  and 
the  pauper  touched  his  hand.     "  Put  me  on  the  high 


250  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

road,  kind  man,"  said  the  piper.  "  But  sure  I  ought 
to  know  these  roads  well." 

So  together  they  mounted  the  road,  two  old  men 
with  staffs  in  their  hands.  Whiteness  was  on  the  hair 
and  beards  of  both.  The  musician,  for  all  his  power 
and  erectness,  was  not  much  younger  than  the  man 
with  the  bag.  The  years  had  ennobled  his  face,  giving 
it  a  more  clear  outhne,  a  colour  nearer  to  marble. 
In  his  face  there  were  ardours  and  intellect  and  the 
beauty  of  the  creature  that  had  never  submitted 
to  yoke.  His  eyeballs,  far-sunken  in  his  head, 
were  astonishingly  contracted.  Those  blinded  eyes, 
the  lines  of  his  features  that  suggest  remote  ways, 
gave  the  face  a  strangeness  that  had  in  it  something 
repellent.  The  man  beside  him  was  of  the  average 
humanity,  one  without  excess  of  will  or  excess  of 
intellect,  one  prone  to  folhes,  prone  to  pieties.  The 
pauper's  bag  hung  across  his  back,  and  all  the  things 
that  affront  humanity  had  overtaken  him — age, 
neglect,  and  decay.  His  face  was  without  determina- 
tion of  outline,  his  clothes  were  slovenly  and  dirty, 
and  yet  he  had  a  dignity  that  made  a  real  pathos. 
This  man,  surely,  had  drunken  at  the  same  breast  as 
yourself.  And  now  as  he  went  on  with  the  other, 
tears  streamed  down  liis  face. 

"  0  Myles,  a-Gradh,""  said  he.  "  Are  you  blind 
altogether,  Myles  ?  " 

"  Who's  that  ?  "  cried  the  blind  man.  "  Is  it  John  ? 
Is  it  my  brother  John  ?  Well  now,  isn't  this  the 
queerest  thing  that  ever  happened  ?  " 

"  Are  you  blind,  Myles  ?  Can  you  see  at 
all?" 

"  I  have  a  glim — just  a  glim  of  sight.     And  was 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  251 

it  you,  my  brother,  that  they  mentioned  as  the  poor 
man  ?  " 

"I'll— I'll  whisper  it  to  you,  Myles.  I've— I've 
the  bag  on  my  back." 

"  And  your  hand,  John  ?  What  came  over  this 
hand  ?  " 

"  It — it  withered  up  on  me." 

The  pair  had  been  standing  on  the  road,  but  now 
the  restless  temper  of  the  blind  man  urged  him  for- 
ward again.  He  put  the  stick  before  him,  saying, 
"  I've  to  be  at  the  pattern  at  Moylena  to-morrow. 
I'm  staying  to-night  at  Crossgar,  at  the  house  of  one 
of  the  Maclnerney's." 

"  Is  it  Brian  Maclnerney's  ?  " 

"  Ay,  Brian  Maclnerney's.  It's  a  long  time  since 
you  saw  me,  John.  It's  about  a  score  of  years, 
I  think." 

"  A  score  of  years,"  said  John.  "  It's  a  score  of 
years  and  more.  Wasn't  it  at  the  time  when  the 
Prussians  and  the  French  were  at  war  ?  " 

"  It  was,"  said  Myles.  "  I  was  gathering  up  horses 
for  French  George  and  I  met  you  in  the  town  below." 

John's  brows  were  bristling  again,  giving  him  that 
look  of  absurd  fierceness.  "  Michael  Joyce  was  in 
the  town  and  we  went  into  his  house,  and  we  had  a 
drink  together." 

"  Ay,  in  troth." 

"  I  tell  you  it's  more  than  a  score  of  years.  It's 
nearly  two  score  years." 

"  No  matter  for  that,"  said  Myles.  "  I  came  back 
again  from  France,  and  I  was  concerned  with  horses 
again  for  a  term  of  years.  My  eyesight  failed  me 
then,  and  I  took  to  the  road  with  the  pipes." 


252  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  And  had  you  any  rearing,  Myles  ?  " 

"  A  couple  of  sons,  but  they  scattered  East  and 
West  on  me.  One  of  them  joined  the  Enghsh  and 
got  killed  in  their  bloody  wars." 

"  I  had  the  one  son.  He  married — married  a 
woman,  do  ye  see." 

"  Ay,  surely." 

"  And  the  woman  dealt  in  a  shop — buying  things — 
things  that  weren't  wanted,  maybe." 
1  see. 

"  And  it  fell  out  that  we  owed  the  shop  as  much  as 
twenty  pounds." 

"  The  price  of  a  horse,  bedad." 

"  And — and — they  put  us  out  of  the  holding,  do 
ye  see  ?  " 

"  Who  put  ye  out  ?     Was  it  the  landlord  ?  " 

"  The  Court — the  Session  Court — do  ye  see." 

"  And  where  are  you  Uving  now,  John  ?  " 

"  I'm  not  living  with  them,  I  tell  you — I'm  not 
living  with  my  son  and  his  woman.  They's  put  me 
out  across  the  door." 

"  And  how  are  you  situated,  John  ?  " 

"  The  neighbours  built  me  a  hut  —  they  didn't 
like  me  to  be  sleeping  in  their  houses,  do  ye  see — 
an  oul'  man  by  the  fire — it  isn't  nice.  They'd  come 
together  on  a  Sunday  and  build  up  a  little  place  for 
me — putting  the  one  stone  on  top  of  the  other, 
do  ye  see.  Well,  there's  a  spark  of  fire  there, 
anyway." 

"  Maybe,  I'll  go  up  with  you,  John." 

"  Do,  a-Gradh.  Here  is  the  turn.  Up  this  little 
road." 

"  Faith,  I  know  this  way  well.     Now,  what  am  I 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  253 

thinking  about  ?  Una  Paralon  used  to  live  up  there 
when  she  was  a  girl." 

"  Now,  aren't  you  great  to  remember  that." 

"  Is  it  far  up  to  the  hut,  John  ?  " 

"  A  couple  of  turns  above  the  place  where  the 
Paralons  lived." 

"  It's  a  long  road  and  a  stony  road,  John.  No, 
John,  I  won't  go  up." 

"  I've  a  bit  in  the  bag  and  I'll  put  a  spark  of  fire 
under  the  pot.     Come  up  to  my  httle  house,  a-Gradk.^'' 

"  No,  John.  Step  down  a  bit  of  the  road  with  me. 
I'm  feeling  lonesome.  They  say,  John,  that  after  you 
go  rambling  one  place  is  just  the  same  as  another." 

"  Maybe  they're  not  right,  Myles." 

"  They're  not  right,  John.  Look  up  at  the  sky, 
John  and  tell  me  if  it's  going  to  rain  ?  " 

"  It's  not  going  to  rain.  Maybe  you'd  best  be 
going  now  while  you've  the  blessed  light." 

"  I'm  going  on  now,  John.  The  blessing  of  God 
with  you." 

"  The  dear  blessing  of  God  with  you,  brother." 

Along  the  road  between  two  bogs  the  blind  man 
went,  fine  and  erect  in  the  evening  light,  and  the  man 
watching  him  stood  as  motionless  as  the  old  horse 
turned  out  into  the  field. 


XIV 

.    The  Flute  Player's  Story 

There  is  a  road  in  Connemara  which  seems  to  have 
been  invented  by  some  racial  spirit,  so  that  the 
Wanderlust  might  be  perpetuated  in  us.     When  you 


254  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

set  foot  on  that  road  you  must  go  on  till  the  sense  of 
its  infinity  wearies  you.  You  stop,  but  your  spirit  is 
still  upon  the  road.  Sometimes  you  meet  people, 
women  generally,  driving  asses.  They  are  in  twos 
and  threes  making  some  journey  together.  Once  I 
asked  one  of  these  women  where  the  road  went  when 
it  crossed  the  hills.  She  had  never  heard.  I  asked 
her  what  was  the  neai^est  town  along  the  road.  She 
gave  it  a  soft  monosyllabic  name.  I  asked  her  how 
long,  in  her  opinion,  it  would  take  me  to  get  to  that 
town,  walking.  She  said,  in  Irish,  "  My  treasure,  if 
you  were  to  set  out  now  (it  was  in  the  early  afternoon), 
you  would  be  in  the  town  with  the  daylight."  I 
never  reached  the  town  with  the  soft  monosyllabic 
name.  One  day  I  went  far  along  the  road.  I  had 
passed  where  the  lake,  a  wide,  sailless  stretch  of  water, 
had  made  a  beach  for  itself.  There  was  a  wide  bog 
on  both  sides  of  me,  and  before  me  were  the  silent 
enfolding  hills.  I  saw  a  huddled  figure  by  the  grass 
of  a  ditch.  Before  I  came  near  it  a  cycHst-policeman 
had  swooped  down,  and  the  figure  was  on  its  feet.  A 
man  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road  swajdng  about, 
a  corpulent  figure,  big  and  round  of  stomach.  I  per- 
ceived that  his  chin  had  many  folds,  that  his  eyes 
were  small  and  dead-looking,  that  in  spite  of  his 
watch-chain,  his  manners  were  obsequious.  I  could 
not  rid  my  mind  of  the  impression  that  this  man  was 
somehow  connected  with  the  sea.  Yet  it  was  im- 
possible to  imagine  such  a  creature  on  board  ship. 
He  was  of  the  docks  rather  than  of  the  ocean.  He 
might  be  a  person  who  had  drowsed  and  fattened  in 
some  little  marine  store.  Evidently  the  policeman 
wanted  the  man  to  move  somewhere  ;  yet  there  were 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  255 

three  very  good  reasons  for  the  man's  inertia.  In  the 
first  place,  he  was  as  gross  as  matter ;  in  the  second 
place,  he  was  lame  of  a  leg  ;  in  the  third  place,  he  was 
drunk.  I  heard  the  policeman  ask  him  where  he  had 
spent  the  previous  night.  The  man,  bringing,  as  it 
were,  thought-particles  from  afar  off,  informed  the 
law  that  the  town  of  Ballinasleeve  was  his  last  abiding 
place.  Ballinasleeve  is  in  the  inhabited  country 
which  I  had  just  left  behind.  "  And  are  you  a  trades- 
man ?  "  asked  the  policeman.  With  ponderous 
gravity  the  man  rephed,  "  Well,  no,  sir,  I  am  not  a 
tradesman.  I  am  a  musician,  a  strolling  musician. 
Sir,  I  play  upon  the  flute." 

A  musician  !  A  strolling  player  !  One  that  made 
music  on  a  flute  !  If  incongruity  is  humour,  here  was 
comedy  indeed.  The  policeman  spoke  out  of  a  great 
amaze  !  "A  musician — a  strolling  player  !  Do  you 
tell  me  that  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  man,  "  why  would  I  be  deceiving 
a  policeman  ?  Here  is  my  instrument."  He  took 
out  of  his  breast-pocket  a  flute.  The  policeman 
examined  it  incredulously,  while  the  strolling  player, 
hat  in  hand,  wiped  his  head  with  a  red  pocket-hand- 
kerchief.    His  bald  head  shone  in  the  evening  sun. 

"  Can  you  play  on  this  ?  "  the  policeman  inquired. 

"  I  can,"  said  the  musician.  "  Drunk  or  sober  I 
can  play  upon  a  flute.  Sometimes  I  can  play  better 
than  at  other  times.  I  could  play  better  after 
a  sleep."  The  poUceman  gave  him  back  the 
flute.  The  man  turned  to  go.  He  turned  towards 
BalHnasleeve  and  the  abodes  of  men. 

"  Stop,"  said  the  law.  "  I  thought  you  told  me 
that  you  had  spent  the  night  in  Ballinasleeve  ?  " 


256  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  spent  the  night  in  the  town  of 
Ballinasleeve." 

"  Well,  then,  move  the  other  way,"  said  the  police- 
man. He  mounted  the  machine.  The  man  swayed 
about.  Then  he  moved  some  paces  in  obedience  to 
the  edict.  I  noted  that  the  policeman  had  risen  above 
local  and  temporal  law.  He  had  expressed  the  eternal 
and  universal  law.  "  You  must  move  to  live."  In 
obedience  to  this  the  artist  took  a  few  steps  into  the 
wilderness.  Then  he  plunged  forward,  and  lay  face 
downwards  in  the  ditch.  I  went  on,  meditating  on 
the  Law. 


Coming  back  along  the  road  I  heard  the  sound  of 
a  flute.  The  artist  was  playing  to  some  workers  in 
a  far-off  bog.  His  head  was  bare  and  shining.  The 
red  handkerchief  was  about  his  neck.  He  had  worked 
himself  into  a  mild  ecstasy,  and  was  capering  about 
on  the  road.  He  sat  down  by  the  side  of  the  road. 
I  went  and  sat  near  him. 

"  It's  well  for  you  that  has  the  music,"  I  said  to 
him  in  Irish. 

"  The  music  that  I  play  is  not  the  best  of  music," 
said  the  man,  speaking  in  Irish  also.  "  But  the 
people  of  the  country  like  it." 

"  You  have  good  Irish,"  I  said,  "  but  I  don't 
think  you're  a  Connaught  man." 

"  I'm  a  long  time  on  the  roads  of  Connaught," 
he  said.  I  asked  the  man  for  the  time.  He  drew 
out  a  large  silver  watch,  and  told  me  the  hour.  I 
watched  the  mountain  across  the  lake.  The  side 
of  it  was  brown,   steeped  in  the  rays  of  the  sun. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  257 

The  little  bunches  of  sheep  seemed  to  crawl  up  and 
down.  I  loafed,  and  invited  my  soul  to  loaf.  I 
talked  to  the  musician  about  fiddles,  flutes,  and  that 
musical  instrument  which  is  becoming  national  and 
typical  in  the  province  of  Connaught,  the  melodion. 
The  man's  soul  was  not  on  fire  for  his  art ;  he  talked 
about  it  in  the  most  objective  and  material  way.  He 
was  certainly  no  Connaught  man.  His  brain  did  not 
fling  out  words  joyously.  No  word  he  said  hinted  the 
man's  dream  of  himself.  There  he  sat  by  the  side  of 
the  road,  talking,  as  if  newly  taken  out  of  some  dark 
little  hand-me-down  shop,  or  some  Httle  eating-house, 
that  had  for  a  sign  the  cup  and  saucer.  Still  we 
gossiped  for  a  long  time.  At  last  there  was  move- 
ment on  the  road.  A  van  was  going  towards  Balhn- 
asleeve,  one  of  these  wagons  that  hold  the  side  show 
of  a  fair,  and  is  a  travelHng  house  beside  it.  It  was 
a  red  van  with  a  little  flue,  drawn  by  a  small  and  tired 
horse.  A  man  and  woman  walked  behind  the  van, 
and  I  recognised  them  for  Mr  and  Mrs  Antinous, 
circus  people,  and  friends  of  mine.  The  flute  player 
recognised  them  too,  and  the  recognition  brought  a 
dull,  malignant  look  to  his  face.  The  couple  drew 
near,  Mrs  Antinous  was  a  heavy  figure,  with  a 
grotesque  dress,  stiff  and  black.  Her  husband  was 
smoking  and  chirping  as  usual.  How  well  I  remem- 
bered Sammy,  the^Cockney  husband  of  Mrs  Antinous. 
Sammy  was  stone-deaf,  but  he  apprehended  certain 
things  by  a  sort  of  heightened  sensibility.  Thus  if 
you  said,  "  What's  the  drinks  ?  "  or  "  The  same  again," 
Sammy  drew  himself  from  the  remotest  corner 
of  the  shop,  and  stood  before  the  counter  without  a 
word.     I  observed  the  one  horse  with  interest.     When 


258  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

I  met  the  couple  last  in  the  County  of  Cavan  the 
horses  were  five,  and  had  recently  been  seven.  Poor 
Mrs  Antinous  !  Her  state  had  shrunk  to  this  little 
measure.  She  walked  along  stolidly,  but  to  me  she 
was  a  tragic  figure. 

They  greeted  me,  and  I  stood  talking  to  them  for 
a  while.  The  flute  player  remained,  big  and  ugly, 
in  the  ditch.  Mrs  Antinous  recognised  him.  She 
stopped  her  husband's  idle  chatter,  and  pointed  out 
the  musician.  Sammy  took  the  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth,  and  twisted  on  his  feet  with  a  sort  of  pixie- 
glee.  "  It's  William  Ferguson,"  he  said.  "  The 
missus'  valentine,"  he  said.  "  She's  the  honey- 
suckle and  he's  the  bee  ;  he,  he,  he  !  "  Mr  Antinous 
went  over  to  the  ditch.  "  How  are  you,  William," 
he  said.  "  It's  a  long  time  since  we  met,  WiUiam." 
William  remained  in  the  ditch  as  silent  as  a  frog  of 
the  marsh.  Mrs  Antinous  gripped  her  protector  by 
the  hand,  and  led  him  away,  but  Sammy  was  irrepres- 
sible. He  turned  his  head  many  times  as  they  went 
down  the  road.  "  William,"  said  he,  "  the  missus 
and  myself  desires  you  to  afternoon  tea.  We'll  send 
the  ambulance  for  you,  William."  The  flute  player 
by  this  time  had  gathered  his  words  together,  "  Go 
on,"  said  he,  "  yourselves  and  your  one  horse."  He 
turned  to  me,  as  I  came  up,  the  dull,  mahgnant  look 
still  on  his  face.  "It's  a  hired  horse,  too,"  he  said ; 
"  it's  a  horse  of  Flanagan's.  Let  her  go.  Maybe  I'll 
stroll  into  the  town  to-morrow,  and  see  what  herself 
and  him  will  be  doing  at  the  fair.  They'll  have  a 
little  stand,  and  bottles  for  the  men  to  throw  rings 
over  for  penknives  and  the  like.  They'll  make  little 
at  that.     There's  little  drinking  in  the  town  now. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  259 

The  whole  country  has  the  mission-pledge.  Where 
there  isn't  drinking  there  isn't  sport,  and  it's 
no  good  having  a  shooting  range  or  a  little  gallery. 
They're  very  low  in  the  world.  Would  you  believe 
it,  sir,  I  once  offered  myself  in  marriage  to  that 
woman  ? 

"  You've  probably  heard  about  me  from  certain 
parties  that  you  are  acquainted  with,  but  one  story 
is  good  until  another  is  told.  My  name  is  Wilham 
Ferguson.  I'm  from  Scotland.  I  came  from  the 
city  of  Paisley.  I  was  barbering  for  a  while,  but  I 
was  sacked  from  that  because  the  proprietor  thought 
I  wasn't  sociable  enough  as  a  barber.  Then  I  was 
in  the  betting  line,  but  the  police  came  against  me 
there.  I  came  to  Ireland  with  a  gang  of  harvesters. 
I  played  for  them  on  the  flute.  Then  I  settled  down 
to  live  in  Connaught.  I  got  a  bed  here  and  there, 
and  the  people  gave  me  the  bit  to  eat.  They  have 
dances  at  certain  places  at  this  time  of  the  year,  and 
they  make  up  a  little  collection  for  the  musician.  As 
to  the  woman  gone  by,  I  met  her  after  I  was  a  while 
in  Connaught.  She  was  a  young  widow  then,  with  a 
husband  after  dying  on  her.  Her  husband  was  a 
man  you  may  have  heard  of.  Sarsfield  was  his 
name. 

"  This  Sarsfield  died,  and  his  widow  would  be  well 
off  if  a  woman  could  manage  the  circus  business. 
She  had  a  tarpaulin  that  would  cover  a  field.  It 
was  worth  a  lot  of  money.  She  had  an  organ  worth 
close  on  £50.  It  was  played  by  steam.  She  had 
fifteen  horses.  I  heard  about  Mrs  Sarsfield  in  a  house 
where  I  was  taking  a  drink,  and  I  thought  that  a 
job  under  her  would  be  worth  something.     I  went 


260  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

round,  and  asked  for  a  job,  and  she  put  me  collecting 
at  the  tent.  She  put  another  man  to  watch  me. 
I  held  on  to  the  job.  You  know,  sir,  that  every  man 
likes  to  settle  down  in  hfe,  and  for  that  reason  I  had 
thoughts  of  marrying  Sarsfield's  widow.  I  stood  a 
likely  chance.  A  woman  can't  look  after  a  circus. 
The  men  that  a  woman  will  pay  can't  be  reUed  on. 
It's  the  same  in  the  barbering  business.  It's  the  same 
in  all  hues  of  business,  except  a  pawn-shop.  Now  a 
circus  is  the  most  difficult  line  that  a  woman  could 
handle,  because  she  has  to  watch  both  men  and  horses. 
I  used  to  say  to  myself,  '  You'll  have  to  marry  again, 
my  go(^d  woman.'  I  had  a  good  hand  with  horses, 
and  that's  curious  when  you  think  I  was  born  and 
bred  in  the  city  of  Paisley.  However  it  is,  the  horses 
turn  their  heads  to  me  when  I  walk  down  the  street. 
I  took  charge  of  that  woman's  horses.  It's  likely 
she'll  deny  it  now,  but  I  tell  you,  sir,  the  horses  kept 
in  good  shape  while  I  had  my  hand  on  them.  She 
couldn't  help  but  notice  how  careful  I  was  of  her 
property.  I  mentioned  marriage  to  her  in  a  kind  of 
a  way,  and  in  a  sort  of  a  way  she  let  me  know  she 
wasn't  ready  for  it.  But  she  soon  saw  the  way  that 
things  would  go,  and  by  degrees  I  prepared  her  mind 
for  marriage.  There  was  no  arrangement  between  us. 
There  was  a  sort  of  an  agreement.  There  was  no  one 
except  myself  she  could  marry,  and  she'd  have  to 
marry  soon. 

"It's  not  the  way  of  men  to  see  anyone  else  get 
ahead  of  them  in  any  way.  The  other  men  got  jealous 
of  me,  and  they'd  never  miss  a  chance  of  doing  an 
injury  to  me.  They  used  to  leave  me  to  bring  the 
horses  to  the  river  by  myself.     It's  hard  for  a  lame 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  261 

man  to  be  legging  it  after  horses.  I  used  to  have  to 
give  pennies  to  the  boys  of  the  town  to  give  me  a 
hand  with  the  horses.  They'd  get  them  down  to  the 
river,  and  draw  the  water,  and  I'd  manage  the  horses. 
It  was  while  I  was  attending  the  horses  one  day  that 
Antinous  came  up,  and  offered  to  give  me  a  hand. 
He  was  a  poor  raggy  fellow  without  a  boot  on  his  foot. 
He  was  sacked  out  of  the  swinging-boat  business.  I 
knew  by  the  way  that  he  touched  horses  that  he  was 
never  used  to  Uve  animals.  I  couldn't  shake  him  off, 
for  the  man  was  deaf,  and  consequently  gave  no  heed 
to  my  sayings.  He  brought  the  horses  up  to  the  tent, 
and  was  there  before  me.  Mrs  Sarsfield  was  at  the 
van,  and  he  was  standing  before  her,  bowing  like  the 
clown,  and  pattering  away.  He  said  she  was  the 
prairie  flower,  and  mind  you,  the  woman  listened  to 
him,  though  she  could  have  heard  the  same  thing  in 
the  ring  any  night." 

"  I  suppose  she  gave  Antinous  a  job  ?  "  I  said. 

'*  She  gave  him  a  job,"  said  my  friend  the  flute 
player.  "  I  think  he  begged  the  job  off  her.  He 
told  her  he  had  no  mother.  She  gave  him  the  job, 
and  he  and  me  used  to  take  the  horses  to  the  water 
every  day.  He  knew  nothing  about  horses.  I  let 
on  to  be  sick  one  day,  and  I  let  him  take  the  horses 
to  the  river  by  himself.  It  was  a  stony  place.  The 
horses'  legs  would  have  been  broken  only  for  some 
of  the  men  gave  Antinous  a  hand  out  of  the  ill-will 
they  had  for  myself.  When  he  came  back  Mrs 
Sarsfield  brought  him  into  tea.  I  didn't  do  a  hand's 
turn  for  her  that  day,  nor  the  next  day,  nor  the  day 
after.  She  came  out  to  me  then.  Mind  you,  I 
didn't  want  to  lose  my  job,  but  I  told  her  she'd  have 


262  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

to  get  rid  of  Sammy  Antinous,  or  else  part  with 
myself.  If  she  could  see  what  would  happen  to  her 
horses  she  would  have  given  in.  But  that  wasn't  to 
be  seen. 

"  The  end  of  the  story  happened  in  the  town  of 
Crossgar.  There  is  a  shop  there  owned  by  a  widow 
woman  of  the  name  of  Molloy.  When  I  was  in  the 
town  I  did  nothing,  but  I  often  used  to  go  into  Mrs 
Molloy's,  and  have  a  few  glasses  to  myself  without 
anyone  to  disturb  me.  This  night  I  went  in.  I  had 
the  flute  in  my  hand,  and  I  made  my  way  over  to 
the  counter.  Before  I  sat  down  I  looked  round,  and 
I  saw  Sammy  Antinous  and  Mrs  Sarsfield  sitting  on 
a  bench.  Sammy  asked  me  to  have  a  drink,  but  I 
refused  him.  I  turned  round,  and  I  offered  Mrs 
Sarsfield  what  was  becoming  to  a  lady,  a  glass  of 
wine.  She  accepted  my  offer,  and  Sammy  carried 
over  the  glass  to  her.  I  didn't  drink  anything  myself, 
but  I  sat  and  watched  her  for  a  long  time.  '  Mrs 
Sarsfield,'  I  said  to  her,  '  this  young  man  can't  hear 
us,  so  we  may  as  well  talk  now.  Look  at  him  and  look 
at  me.  He  has  no  head,  Mrs  Sarsfield.  I'm  weak  on 
the  legs,  but  my  head  is  sound.  If  you  want  to  keep 
your  horses  sound  marry  me,  and  let  me  look  after 
them.'  She  didn't  drink  at  all,  but  she  sat  there  very 
miserable.  '  I  don't  know  how  it  is,'  she  said,  '  but 
I'm  more  used  to  this  young  man  than  I'm  used  to 
you.'  Sammy  was  trying  to  listen  all  the  time.  *  I'm 
as  used  to  horses,'  he  said,  '  as  horses  are  used  to  oats. 
I  was  managing  horses  when  I  was  only  up  to 
William's  leg.'  '  They  were  wooden  horses,'  said 
I.  '  He'll  soon  get  used  to  live  horses,  Sammy  wiU,' 
said   the   woman.     She   was   very   foolish.    To  the 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  263 

present  time  Sammy  Antinous  treats  all  manner  of 
living  horses  as  if  they  were  wooden  horses.  Sammy 
got  up  to  go  to  the  counter,  and  I  saw  that  Mrs 
Sarsfield  slipped  the  money  into  his  hand.  I  knew 
she'd  have  him  after  that,  and  there  was  no  use  in 
me  waiting  on.  I  turned  to  that  woman,  and  I 
spoke  words  to  her  that  brought  the  blush  to  her 
face.  '  Ma'am,'  said  I,  '  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  behave 
in  the  way  that  a  respectable  woman  would  not  be- 
have. You're  marrying  that  young  man,  not  that 
he  might  keep  your  little  business  together,  not  that 
he  might  be  a  protection  to  you,  not  that  he  might 
look  after  your  horses.  You're  marrying  him  out  of 
the  passion  of  women,'  I  said  ;  '  and,  mark  my  words, 
you  will  call  the  day  cursed.  Babylon  fell,'  I  said, 
*■  and  Rome  fell,  and  the  Scarlet  Woman  of  Rome  fell, 
and  you'll  fall  hkewise.'  I  said  no  more.  I  let  them 
go  out.  I  drunk  small  whiskies,  and  when  I  wakened 
they  were  gone  from  the  town.  At  the  next  station 
my  words  became  true.  A  horse  broke  its  leg  at  the 
watering-place.  Ever  since  they  lost  horses,  one 
here,  and  two  there.  She's  going  into  the  town  now 
with  a  hired  horse,  without  a  tarpauhn,  and  without 
an  organ.  I  doubt  if  she'll  make  enough  to  get  the 
van  drawn  out  of  the  town." 


The  flute-player  ended  his  story  as  the  wandering 
moon  lifted  its  fantastic  shape  above  the  lake. 


264  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

XV 

The  Ballad-singee 

Market-day  in  the  little  Connacht  town  ;  it  is 
afternoon,  and  business  is  spasmodic.  A  man, 
standing  in  the  wide  street,  is  singing  a  ballad  in  a 
voice  trained  for  distance  and  the  open  air.  He  is 
in  descent  from  the  wandering  minstrels,  and  his 
class  has  been  kept  ahve  by  the  excitements  in  rural 
Ireland.  He  belongs  to  a  fraternity  still  very  numer- 
ous. Their  palmy  days  are  over,  however,  for  things 
have  become  more  settled,  and  the  ha'penny  news- 
paper has  arrived.  Generally  the  minstrels  carry 
with  them  a  sheaf  of  ballads  which  they  retail.  Who 
writes  these  ballads  that  circulate  from  Donegal  to 
Cork  and  from  Dublin  to  Galway  ?  Sometimes  the 
authors  are  known.  The  ballads,  in  the  main,  are 
written  by  anonymous  people,  by  shopkeepers,  by 
schoolmasters,  by  policemen.  Their  place  of  publica- 
tion has  a  curious  proximity.  It  is  in  Kilmainliam, 
a  place  notable  for  the  detention  of  political  prisoners. 
The  man  in  the  street  is  without  scripts.  He  is 
singing  a  ballad  that  has  been  on  the  road  for  over  a 
hundred  years  : — 

"  And  what  colour  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht.i 
And  what  colour  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  colour  will  be  seen 
Where  their  fathers'  homes  have  been 
But  their  own  immortal  green  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

^  "The  Poor  Old  Woman/'  a  ''secret"  name  for  Ireland. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  265 

Wiat  colour  will  be  seen 
Where  their  fathers'  homes  have  been 
But  their  own  immortal  green 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht." 

The  singer  is  a  lame  man.  He  is  heavily  built,  wears 
a  cap,  and  holds  a  stick  in  his  hand.  A  roll  of  scarlet 
round  his  neck  expresses  something  in  the  man — 
a  certain  rawness  of  life  and  crudeness  of  artistry. 
The  song  finished,  he  crosses  the  street  and  makes 
his  way  into  the  public-house.  With  its  crowd,  the 
interior  is  a  replica  of  the  market.  The  people  talking 
and  drinking  have  been  the  ballad-singer's  audience. 
He  goes  to  the  counter  that  crosses  the  upper  end  of 
the  shop,  and  stands  waiting  on  their  attention. 

The  ballad-finger  takes  off  his  cap.  His  big  head 
is  bald  and  his  face  is  clean  shaven.  The  big  face 
has  many  protuberances  on  it.  The  nose  looks  hke 
copper,  and  the  face  looks  as  if  it  had  been  burnished. 
The  small  knowledgable  eyes  watch  the  crowd  atten- 
tively, but  without  any  flash  or  eagerness.  A  tumbler 
of  porter  is  given  him,  and  the  minstrel  sits  down 
on  the  end  of  a  barrel.  He  salutes  each  person  in 
the  shop,  drinks  a  httle  porter,  and  having  gained 
some  attention,  begins  a  song.  The  ballad  is  adapted 
to  the  audience.  It  relates  the  adventures  of  a  band 
of  Connacht  labourers  in  England.  The  ballad 
begins  : — 

"  Then  we  sailed  away  across  the  bay,  and  we  never  received  a 

shock, 
Till  we  landed  safe  and  fairly  reached  the  noble  Clarence  Dock. 
Then  away  we  went  with  one  intent,  and  we  drank  strong  ale 

and  wine, 
And  we  toasted  then  oul'  Irelan'  and  the  girls  we  left  behin'." 


266  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

He  sings  with  great  liveliness,  using  the  short  end 
of  his  stick  like  a  conductor's  baton,  as  though  the 
song  were  the  score  and  the  crowd  the  orchestra. 
The  song  is  a  success,  and  a  good  many  coppers  are 
contributed.  He  says  "  Three  cheers  for  Conne- 
mara,  three  cheers  for  Westport,  three  cheers  for  the 
place  where  we  are."  A  man  who  has  been  drinking 
cries  out  in  Irish,  "  And  a  health  to  Mayo,  the  county 
that's  best  in  Eirinn."  Facing  the  countryman,  the 
ballad-singer  begins  the  popular  Gaelic  song  "  Condae 
Mhuig-eo."  The  countryman  sings  the  words  aggres- 
sively and  for  the  sake  of  order  the  publican  inter- 
venes.    The  ballad-singer  discreetly  withdraws. 

Towards  evening  he  presents  himself  at  Mrs 
Jordan's,  where  non-stimulating  commodities  such 
as  draperies  and  groceries  are  sold.  Some  women 
and  one  or  two  quiet  men  are  in  the  shop.  The 
minstrel  enters  as  rather  on  a  visit  than  a  professional 
call.  Mrs  Jordan  is  showing  girls  some  ribbons, 
and  the  ballad-singer  permits  himself  to  speak  of 
her.  "  She's  of  a  good  family,"  he  says  ;  "  she's 
a  woman  of  the  Lacys.  My  mother  belonged  to  the 
Lacys,  and  I'm  proud  of  it."  He  has  had  refresh- 
ments since  he  came  into  the  town,  but  the  various 
treats  have  left  him  mellow  of  spirit  and  easy  of 
manner.  He  sits  down  on  a  chair  and  addresses 
himself  to  each  person  in  turn.  "  Mrs  Coyne,  you're 
looking  well ;  may  God  preserve  you,  ma'am." 
"  And  how  is  your  good  man,  Mrs  MacGowan  ?  " 
The  chance  customer  in  the  shop  is  not  left  outside 
his  interest.  "  How  is  your  friend,  your  companion, 
your  noble  friend,  Mr  Jennings  ?  "  He  asks  Mrs 
Jordan's  permission  to  entertain  the  company.     She 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  267 

signifies  her  approbation  by  leaning  her  elbows  on 
the  counter.  His  song  is  suited  to  the  gentility  of 
the  company — 

"  As  I  rowed  out  one  morning  all  in  the  month  of  May, 
Down  by  the  Sally  Gardens  I  carelessly  did  stray. 
I  overheard  a  fair  maid  as  she  in  sorrow  did  complain, 
'  It  was  on  the  Banks  of  Clady  my  darling  did  remain.' 

'  This  is  the  Banks  of  Clady,  fair  maid,  whereon  you  stan', 
Do  not  depend  on  Johnny  for  he's  a  false  young  man. 
This  is  the  Banks  of  Clady,  but  he'll  not  meet  you  here, 
But  tarry  with  me  in  yon  green  wood  where  no  danger  you 
need  fear.' 

'  If  my  Johnny  was  with  me  here  this  night  he'd  keep  me  from 

all  harm, 
But  he's  in  the  field  of  battle  all  in  his  uniform. 
But  he's  in  the  field  of  battle,  his  foes  he  does  destroy 
Like  a  roaring  King  of  Armies  going  to  the  wars  of  Troy.' 

'  And  it's  six  months  now  and  better  since  your  Johnny  left 

the  shore. 
He  was  crossing  the  main  Ocean  where  the  flowing  billows  roar. 
He  was  crossing  the  main  Ocean  for  honour  and  for  fame. 
As  I've  been  told  his  ship  was  wrecked  all  oflf  the  coast  of 

Spain.' 

And  when  she  heard  the  bitter  news  she  flew  into  despair 
With  the  wringing  of  her  hands  and  the  tearing  of  her  hair, 
Saying  '  If  Johnny  he  be  drowned  no  man  on  earth  I'll  take, 
Through  lonesome  groves  and  valleys  I'll  wander  for  his  sake.' 

And  it's  when  he  saw  her  loyalty  he  could  no  longer  stan', 
But  falling  in  her  arms  he  said  '  Betsy,  I'm  the  man. 
I'm  that  inconstant  young  man  that  caused  you  all  the  pain, 
And  I'm  now  come  back  to  Clady,  and  we'll  never  part  again.'  " 

The  song  is  received  with  favour,  and  the  singer  adds 
some  coppers  to  his  stock.  He  goes  out  to  the 
festivity  of  the  town. 


268  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

It  is  evening,  and  the  people  from  the  market 
are  dribbUng  along  the  road.  A  barefoot  child  drives 
a  donkey  that  has  a  sack  of  meal  across  its  back. 
A  cart  crowded  with  people  comes  along.  Then 
three  or  four  women  gossiping  together.  The 
mountain  horses  pass  on,  on  the  back  of  each  a  man, 
with  a  woman  seated  on  the  pillion  behind  him. 
With  his  cap  off  and  his  red  muffler  hanging  across 
his  coat,  the  ballad-singer  is  seated  on  a  grassy  ditch. 
He  is  in  a  happy  frame  of  mind.  He  tells  us  that  he 
is  as  correct  a  man  as  he  knows  how.  We  assure 
him  of  our  regard,  and  he  drinks  to  us,  repeating  the 
Connacht  toast,  which  we  will  set  down  here  : — 

Slan  agus  seaghal  agat ; 
Bean  ar  do  mliein  agat ; 
Talamh  gon  cliios  agat, 
Agus  bas  in  Eirinn. 

Health  and  life  to  you  ; 

The  woman  of  your  choice  to  you  ; 

Land  without  rent  to  you, 

And  death  in  Erinn. 


PART  IV 

THE  CRISIS  IN  IRELAND 


The  Crisis 

Many  English  people  and  some  politically  unin- 
structed  Irish  people  are  of  the  opinion  that  for 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland  the  administration  is 
uniform.  But  the  words  "  union "  and  "  United 
Kingdom  "  and  the  very  full  Irish  representation  at 
Westminster  mask  the  fact  that  the  administration 
of  Great  Britain  and  the  administration  of  Ireland 
form  distinct  types  of  government.  In  England 
each  great  department  is  represented  by  a  Cabinet 
Minister  who  is  responsible  to  a  national  parUament. 
In  Ireland  all  the  departments  are  represented  by 
the  Chief  Secretary  who  is  responsible  to  a  parliament, 
which,  in  so  far  as  it  is  national  for  Great  Britain, 
is  removed  from  Irish  opinion  and  Irish  interests. 
The  government  of  Great  Britain  and  the  govern- 
ment of  Ireland  are  fundamentally  different — one 
emanates  from  a  people  and  the  other  is  imposed 
upon  a  people ;  one  is  organic  and  the  other  is 
mechanical.  "  To  look  behind  mere  technicalities 
to  the  spirit  of  Government,"  says  Mr  Erskine 
Childers,  "  Ireland  resembles  one  of  that  class  of 
Crown  Colonies  of  which  Jamaica  and  Malta  are 
examples,  where  the  inhabitants  exercise  no  control 
over  administration  and  only  partial  control  over 
legislation."     Mr  Childers  again  and  again  mentions 

271 


272  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

the  Colonial  as  the  type  of  Irish  Government.  Like 
all  colonies,  Ireland  has  a  Governor  or  Lord  Lieuten- 
ant of  her  own,  an  executive  of  her  own,  and  a  com- 
plete system  of  Government  departments  ;  but  her 
people,  unlike  the  inhabitant  of  a  self-governing  colony, 
exercise  no  control  over  the  administration.  It  is 
true  that  Ireland  has  a  large  representation  at  West- 
minster, and  that  this  representation  is  supposed 
to  give  her  sufficient  legislative  control  over  Irish 
affairs.  Mr  Childers  notes  that  this  control  can  be 
exercised  only  by  cumbrous,  circuitous  and  often 
profoundly  unhealthy  methods,  and  that  over  a  wide 
range  of  matters  it  cannot  by  any  method  whatso- 
ever be  exercised  at  all.  The  Chief  Secretary  is  "  a 
transitory  and  embarrassed  phantom,"  and  the 
government  of  Ireland  in  operation  consists  of  Boards, 
the  number  of  which  is  estimated  as  between  forty- 
two  and  sixty-seven.  As  far  as  the  Irish  people  are 
concerned  these  Boards  have  neither  a  soul  to  be 
saved  nor  a  body  to  be  kicked.  With  one  exception, 
perhaps,  they  are  immune  to  Irish  opinion.  The 
decrees  of  the  Parliament  at  Westminster  may  not 
affect  them.  The  Board  of  Intermediate  Education, 
for  instance,  can  defy  and  has  defied  a  resolution  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  The  Boards  are  unpopular, 
unrepresentative  and  irresponsible ;  they  are  also 
mighty  expensive.  They  billet  100,000  persons  upon 
the  Irish  state,  and  they  absorb  four  millions  a  year 
in  pay  and  pensions.  Unfortunately  to  eyes  accus- 
tomed to  gigantic  figures  of  British  Revenue  and 
Expenditure,  this  sum  will  not  seem  starthng.  But 
to  an  inhabitant  of  a  country  to  which  Ireland  might 
fairly  be  likened,  to  a  Dane  or  a  Belgian,  to  a  For- 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  273 

tuguese  or  a  Greek,  four  million  pounds  must  appear 
a  monstrous  amount. 

The  revenue  raised  in  Ireland  is  large  when  com- 
pared with  the  revenue  raised  in  the  minor  European 
States.  It  is  between  ten  and  twelve  milUon  pounds. 
Out  of  this  revenue  Ireland  has  been  contributing 
a  handsome  surplus  to  the  Imperial  Exchequer. 
But  according  to  recent  Treasury  Returns  this 
surplus  has  disappeared,  and  the  British  Exchequer 
must  now  give  a  contribution  to  make  up 
the  difference  between  Irish  Revenue  and  Irish 
Expenditure. 

It  would  be  well  to  make  clear  the  cause  of 
the  Irish  deficit.  Great  Britain  adopted  Old  Age 
Pensions  on  a  scale  commensurate  with  her  ample 
resources  and  proportionate  to  standards  of  earning 
and  spending  amongst  an  industrial  population. 
But  the  Irish  Revenue  is  not  ample  and  the  cost  of 
Irish  administration  is  very  high.  To  pay  old  age 
pensions  on  the  British  scale,  Ireland  has  to  overdraw 
her  account.  Hence  the  deficit.  It  should  be  noted, 
too,  that  in  Ireland  the  people  are  country- dwelling, 
and  their  standards  of  earning  and  spending  is  much 
lower  than  amongst  the  urban  population  of  Great 
Britain.  A  labourer  at  seventy  has  more  as  pension 
than  he  had  as  pay  at  thirty.  And  in  Ireland  the 
number  of  claimants  is  out  of  proportion  to  present 
population,  because  they  are  the  remains  of  eight 
miUion  people.  The  deficit  may  not  lessen  so  long 
as  present  arrangements  continue.  It  is  bound  to 
grow  with  the  adoption  in  Ireland  of  National 
Insurance  and  other  social  measures  promoted  in 
Great  Britain. 


274  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

What  is  to  happen  now  ?  According  to  the  Irish 
Unionist,  Great  Britain  must  go  on  paying  the  differ- 
ence between  Irish  Revenue  and  Irish  Expenditure. 
He  maintains  that  the  revenue  of  Great  Britain  and 
Ireland  is  to  be  regarded  as  a  household's  income. 
Ireland  by  right  can  draw  on  the  British  Exchequer 
for  milhons  ppr  annum.  The  bigger  the  deficit  the 
better  for  Ireland,  because  an  unearned  sum  is 
handed  across  and  spent  amongst  the  Irish  people. 
The  Irish  nationalist  will  not  acquiesce  to  this 
arrangement.  The  deficit,  he  says,  is  expressive  of 
the  disharmony  between  the  relations  of  the  two 
countries.  Make  a  change  in  these  relations  ;  allow 
Ireland  so  much  control  over  her  resources  as  will 
allow  her,  in  a  definite  time,  to  balance  her 
revenue  and  her  expenditure.  This  is  the  Home 
Rule  solution. 

When  I  have  written  this  I  feel  I  must  answer  the 
arguments  of  the  English  reader  of  tliis  book.  I 
imagine  that  he  or  she  has  in  her  mind  the  objections 
that  I  have  read  in  English  newspapers  : — 

The  Reader.  The  creation  of  an  Irish  assembly 
with  an  executive  responsible  to  it  would  be  a 
departure  in  policy. 

The  Writer.  The  creations  of  such  assemblies  in 
Canada,  and  AustraHa,  and  in  South  Africa,  were 
departures  in  poUcy. 

The  Reader.  Home  Rule  would  separate  Ireland 
from  Great  Britain. 

The  Writer.  The  Union  at  present  exists  in  words, 
not  in  facts.  Ireland  has  always  had  a  separate 
government.  A  self-governing  Ireland  would  be  a 
developing    Ireland,    that    more    than    the    present 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  275 

Ireland   would  lean  towards  the   source  of   capital 
and  the  centre  of  military  and  naval  protection. 

The  Reader.  A  national  Government  in  Ireland 
would  form  the  standing  plant  of  revolution. 

The  Writer.  People  do  not  hazard  their  every- day 
security  for  the  mere  sake  of  revolting.  The  attain- 
ment of  national  self-government  is  certainly  worth 
a  revolution.  But  where  self-government  has  been 
attained  a  people  become  busy  about  developing 
their  resources  and  creating  a  culture. 

The  Reader.  A  self-governing  Ireland  might  want 
to  enter  into  alliances  with  States  hostile  to  Great 
Britain. 

The  Writer.  For  what  reason  ?  Some  generations 
ago,  Irishmen  desired  an  alliance  with  France.  But 
Irish  affairs  were  quite  intolerable  then.  France 
is  no  longer  hostile  to  Great  Britain,  and  Ireland  has 
no  affinities  with  any  other  European  country. 

The  Reader.  There  are  two  peoples  in  Ireland.  If 
we  permitted  a  national  government  to  be  set  up, 
affairs  would  eventuate  in  civil  war. 

The  Writer.  There  is  only  one  people  in  Ireland — 
the  Irish  people.  There  are  Catholics,  Protestants, 
and  Presbyterians  amongst  them,  and,  owing  to 
English  interventions  these  denominations  have 
different  political  tendencies  for  the  moment.  But 
when  the  question  of  Irish  self-government  is  settled 
their  differences  will  not  be  so  broad.  It  is  the 
struggle  to  gain  self-government,  and  the  struggle  to 
retard  self-government,  that  makes  their  differences 
emphatic.  liCt  us  talk  about  Belgium.  Between 
Fleming  and  Walloon,  CathoUc  and  Liberal,  there 
are  differences   more  acute  than   between  Catholic 


276  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

and  Protestant  in  Ireland.  But  there  is  no  civil  war 
in  Belgium.  Neither  Fleming  nor  Walloon,  Catholic 
or  Liberal,  wish  to  upset  the  equilibrium  of  their 
self-governing  State. 

The  Reader.  Most  unaccountable  things  happen  in 
Ireland — cattle- driving,  boycotting,  agrarian  outrages. 
We  never  know  of  such  things  here. 

The  Writer.  That  is  because  Great  Britain  is  not 
an  agricultural  but  an  industrial  country.  Your 
disputes  are  industrial  not  agrarian.  If  our  agrarian 
situation  had  been  stated  in  industrial  terms,  you 
would  understand  it.  The  Land  League  that  you 
once  read  about  was  a  tenants'  trades-union.  Boy- 
cotting was  a  sort  of  picketting.  Cattle- driving  was 
the  nature  of  a  strike  against  a  monopoly.  These 
phases  in  Irish  life  are  nearly  over  now.  If  they  re- 
occur a  national  government  is  best  fitted  to  deal 
with  them. 

The  Reader.     You  have  not  convinced  me. 

The  Writer.  I  have  only  tried  to  illuminate  some 
points  in  a  controversy.  This  is  my  stopping-place. 
I  get  off  here. 


II 

The  Opposition  in  Ireland 

In  Ireland  the  opposition  to  self-government  is 
in  the  coalition  of  Church  of  Ireland  Protestants 
and  North  of  Ireland  Presbyterians.  Each  has  a 
separate  history.  Now  to  realise  the  Protestant 
position  we  must  begin  by  thinking  of  an  ascendency 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  277 

that  was  once  as  complete  and  as  extensive  as  the 
late  Manchu  ascendency  in  China.  Numbering  one- 
tenth  of  the  population,  the  Episcopalian  Protestants 
at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  held  five- 
sixths  of  the  landed  property  of  Ireland,  occupied 
the  magistracy  and  the  corporations,  had  practically 
a  monopoly  in  the  professions,  controlled  the  Parha- 
ment  and  the  Government,  enjoyed  all  the  patronage 
and  had  a  church- establishment  to  which  the  majority 
of  their  fellow-countrymen  paid  tithes.  Since  the 
first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  century  great  and 
successive  rents  have  been  made  in  the  fabric  of 
Episcopalian  ascendency — Catholic  Emancipation — 
Reform  of  the  Corporations — Disestablishment  of  the 
Church  of  Ireland — Extension  of  the  Franchise. 
Members  of  other  religious  denominations,  having 
attained  equahty  of  opportunity,  were  taking  places 
in  the  professions  and  in  the  public  services.  Local 
ascendency  was  broken  up.  In  1881  Legislation 
took  a  turn  destined  to  plant  the  Catholic  peasantry 
in  the  soil,  and  to  leave  the  Protestant  landowners 
a  pensioned  proletariat.  The  self- elected  Protestant 
Grand  Juries  were  replaced  by  properly  elected 
local  councils.  To-day  the  Episcopalian  Protestants 
number  575,487,  to  the  Presbyterian  439,876,  and  the 
Catholic  3,238,656.  They  are  the  merchants  and 
traders  in  Belfast,  Dublin,  Cork,  SHgo,  and  the  towns 
of  Ireland.  They  are  the  "  Society,"  as  Society 
exists  in  provincialised  Ireland.  They  have  the  places 
in  the  sun ;  the  Episcopalian  Protestants  are  the 
better  half  of  that  conservative  element  which  is  one- 
fifth  of  the  population,  and  have  more  than  half  the 
places  in  the  Bureaucracy.     The  Irish  Privy  Council 


278  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

consists  of  43  Episcopalian  Protestants,  10  Catholics, 

9  Presbyterians.  As  to  the  Lord  Lieutenants  or 
Deputy-Lieutenants  of  the  Counties,  8  out  of  every 

10  are  EpiscopaHans.  Why  should  they  entertain 
the  thought  of  a  change  in  the  government  of  Ireland  ? 
Thousands  of  individual  Protestants  of  course  are 
very  strong  nationalists,  and,  now  and  again,  one 
hears  the  grave  voice  of  a  Protestant  merchant  or 
trader  proclaiming  that  there  is  a  necessity  for  some 
change  in  the  government  of  the  country,  but,  gener- 
ally speaking,  the  Protestant  body  in  Ireland  is  Con- 
servative because  it  has  something  to  conserve. 

Walk  up  or  down  Molesworth  Street  in  Dublin 
and  notice  the  number  of  institutions  for  the  ad- 
vancement and  the  protection  of  Protestant  interests 
in  Ireland.  There,  engraved  on  plates  of  brass  is 
the  testimony  to  Protestant  solidarity  in  Ireland. 
The  Protestant  body  is  closely  held  together  by  free- 
masonry, by  Young  Men's  Christian  Associations,  by 
the  Orange  Societies  and,  above  all,  by  the  kindly 
and  intelligent  interest  which  members  take  in  each 
other's  worldly  affairs.  In  Ireland  the  Protestants 
are  a  minority,  but  they  are  a  compact  and  well- 
organised  minority,  and  when  one  Protestant  police- 
man is  wronged  the  Irish  Executive  reels  under  the 
blows  that  is  showered  upon  it.  If  they  are  sincere, 
the  expressions  of  terror  which  one  hears  is  incom- 
patible with  the  Protestant  position  and  the  Pro- 
testant organisation.  In  a  self-governing  Ireland 
they  may  expect  the  position  which  the  Huguenots 
have  in  present-day  France. 

That  the  Presbyterian  farmers  of  Ulster  are  hostile 
to  the  movement  for  self-government  is  a  bad  testi- 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  279 

monial  to  the  statesmanship  of  the  NationaHst 
leaders.  The  land  struggle  should  have  knit  together 
the  Presbyterian  and  the  Catholic  tenant-farmers. 
There  were  movements  towards  an  understanding, 
but  somehow  they  lacked  the  flaming  sincerity  that 
would  have  burnt  away  ancient  hates  and  fears. 
The  episode  of  the  land  war  is  now  closed.  They 
have  never  acknowledged  them,  but  the  benefits 
which  the  Presbyterian  tenant-farmers  have  derived 
from  the  travail  of  Catholic  Ireland  cannot  be 
forgotten.  "  It  was  the  Home  Rule  Party  which 
elevated  the  peasants  of  the  four  provinces  from  the 
condition  of  serfs  to  the  position  of  men."  So  an 
eminent  Protestant  business  man,  Mr  Richard  Jones, 
writes  in  the  columns  of  the  Unionist  Irish  Times. '^ 
"  Now,  mark  this  striking  coincidence,"  he  continues. 
"  In  proportion  as  the  Home  Rule  Organisation  spread 
in  the  North  of  Ireland,  so  also  declined  the  spirit 
of  religious  animosity,  and  outbreaks  of  faction. 
Men,  still  differing  sharply  in  poHtics,.  and  widely 
separated  in  religion,  becoming  freed  from  the  perni- 
cious influence  and  power  of  class  interest,  dwelt  to- 
gether in  peace  and  friendship.  Of  all  the  provinces 
of  Ireland,  Ulster  has  profited  the  greatest  by  the 
Home  Rule  movement,  owing  to  the  existence  of 
her  manufacturing  industries  ;  every  pound  which 
the  land  settlement  has  added  to  the  spending  capacity 
of  her  agricultural  population  has  gone  to  the  benefit 
of  her  local  industry.  .  .  .  The  Nationalist  leaders 
have  laid  upon  Ulster  a  debt  of  gratitude  which  Ulster 
men  will  not  be  ungenerous  enough  nor  unjust  enough 
to  repudiate." 

1  Letter  from  Mr  Richard  Jones,  published  November  1st,  1011. 


280  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

Like  the  Catholic,  the  Presbyterian  peasantry  felt 
the  oppression  of  the  Episcopalian  ascendency. 
Thousands  of  them  were  forced  to  leave  their  farms 
in  Antrim  and  Down  and  emigrate  to  the  American 
Colonies.  Presbyterians  and  Catholics  were  in  the 
ranks  of  the  Northern  United  Irishmen  who  took 
the  field  in  1798.  Wolfe  Tone,  the  organiser  of  the 
United  Irish  movement  wrote  this  note  upon  the 
Presbyterians  : — "  The  Dissenters  of  the  North,  the 
more  especially  of  the  town  of  Belfast,  are,  from  the 
genius  of  their  religion,  and  from  the  superior  diffu- 
sion of  political  information  among  them,  sincere 
and  enlightened  Republicans.  They  had  been  fore- 
most in  pursuit  of  Parliamentary  reform,  and  I  have 
already  mentioned  the  early  wisdom  and  virtue  of 
the  town  of  Belfast  in  proposing  emancipation  of 
Catholics  so  far  back  as  the  year  1773."  ^  But 
between  the  date  of  Wolfe  Tone's  entry  and  the 
outbreak  of  1798,  the  Orange  Society  was  founded. 
Lecky  quotes  a  letter  written  by  a  gentleman  in 
Omagh  after  the  formation  of  the  Orange  Society 
in  the  district.  It  shows  how  the  new  line  of  cleavage 
was  running  counter  to  the  schemes  of  the  United 
Irish  party .2  "  He  mentions  that  after  divine  service 
he  had  been  addressing  a  meeting  of  nearly  2000 
Presbyterians  on  the  necessity  of  forming  volunteer 
corps  in  order  to  resist  the  French,  and  also  '  the 
Belfast  principle.'  The  strongest  spirit  of  loyalty, 
he  says,  prevailed  among  them ;  the  hatred  of  Roman 
Catholics  is  very  great,  so  much  so,  that  should  one 
be  admitted  they  never  would  join  with  them,  as 

^  Autobiography  of  Wolfe  Tone. 

2  "Ireland  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,"  Vol.  III. 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  281 

a  spirit  of  Defenderism  and  revenge  exists  in  that 
body  against  the  administration.  This  violent  change 
has  been  wrought  within  a  year — a  change  fraught 
with  the  best  consequences  for  our  King  and  Con- 
stitution." It  is  fair  to  say  that  the  Orange  Society 
seems  to  have  been  founded  as  a  check  to  the  CathoUc 
Committees  and  Defender  Societies.  But  it  is 
difficult  to  apportion  blame  to  Parties  in  those 
troublous  times.  The  creation  of  the  Orange  Societies 
has  had  grave  historical  consequences.  The  Lodges 
were  wedges  between  Catholic  and  Presbyterians, 
and  arks  in  the  alliance  between  Presbyterians  and 
the  Episcopalians.  The  Orange  Societies  were  soon 
adopted  by  the  landowners.  It  was  an  effective 
means  of  dividing  tenants.  In  the  manufacturing 
towns  they  keep  Protestant  and  Catholic  employees 
apart,  and  for  that  reason  it  is  patronised  by 
capitalists.^ 

The  Presbyterian  farmers,  the  people  of  the  in- 
dustrial towns  and  that  nexus  of  population  commerce 
and  industry — Belfast — constitute  what  is  called  the 
"  Ulster  "  opposition.  The  use  of  this  whole  large 
geographical  term  suggests  that  a  large  and  im- 
portant Irish  province  is  opposed  to  the  idea  of 
self-government.  The  convenience  of  localising  an 
opposition  permits  Irish  nationalists  to  let  the  ex- 
pression pass.  But  Ulster  consists  of  nine  counties — 
Donegal,  Londonderry,  Antrim,  Down,  Armagh, 
Tyrone,  Monaghan,  Fermanagh  and  Cavan.  In  the 
nine  counties  of  Ulster,  the  Home  Rule  members  are 
in  a  majority  of  one.     There  are  two  counties,  Antrim 

^  Mr  St  John  Ervine's  play  "  Mixed  Marriage  "  illustrates  the  use 
that  Belfast  employers  make  of  sectarian  animosity. 


282  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

and  London  that  vote  Unionist ;  three  counties 
Cavan,  Monaghan  and  Donegal  that  are  soHd  for 
Home  Rule,  four  counties,  Armagh,  Down,  Fermanagh 
and  Tyrone,  that  together  return  seven  Unionists  and 
six  Home  Rulers.  Sub-Ulster  or  North-East  Ulster 
makes  a  term  that  gives  a  fair  idea  of  the  territorial 
opposition  of  self-government.  The  clenched  fist 
of  that  opposition  is  Belfast. 

What  temper  and  what  power  is  behind  the  clenched 
fist  ?  I  know  Belfast  and  the  North  of  Ireland  only 
superficially,  so  I  will  let  myself  quote  from  an  able 
and  intimate  article  signed,  "  Ulster  Imperialist,"  that 
appeared  in  the  March  number  of  The  Irish  Review. 
"  The  chief  industries  of  Belfast,  especially  the  linen, 
ship-building  and  rope-making  industries  are  depen- 
dent for  their  existence  on  their  export  trade.  The 
correspondence,  the  personal  intercourse,  the  business 
interest  of  the  average  Belfast  business  man,  are 
with  England,  Scotland,  the  Colonies  or  foreign 
countries.  He  has  practically  no  direct  communica- 
tion with  the  rest  of  Ireland.  He  knows  he  can  make 
a  living  under  existing  conditions,  and  he  does  not 
want  an  Irish  Parliament."  "  Ulster  Imperialist  " 
notes  that  the  manufacturers  who  depend  wholly  or 
mainly  on  the  Irish  market  have  more  moderate 
opinions.  Then  there  is  the  religious  question. 
There  are  hterally  thousands  of  Ulster  Unionists 
whose  whole  poHtical  creed  is  summed  up  in  one 
sentence,  "  I  would  be  a  Home  Ruler  to-morrow  only 
for  the  Church  of  Rome."  Such  a  person  agrees 
with  every  suggestion  in  favour  of  the  widest  measure 
of  Home  Rule,  and  then  closes  the  discussion  by 
saying,  "  But  there  would  be  a  permanent  majority 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  283 

of  Roman  Catholics  in  Parliament,   and  I  do  not 
believe  a  Roman  Catholic's  word,  even  on  oath." 

Further,  there  is  a  small  number  of  Ulster 
Protestants  who  quite  sincerely  beheve  that  they 
would  be  burnt  by  an  Irish  equivalent  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. "  The  reason  why  this  little  knot  of  honest 
fanatics  have  such  influence  over  the  rank  and  file  is 
because,  speaking  broadly,  the  superior  ranks  among 
the  Belfast  workmen,  skilled  tradesmen,  foremen  and 
the  like,  are  Protestants,  whereas  the  labourers  and 
the  unskilled  classes  are  largely  Catholic.  Conse- 
quently, Home  Rule,  to,  say,  a  fitter  earning  high 
wages  in  an  engineering  shop,  means  a  scheme  whereby 
the  unskilled  labourers  who  work  in  the  same  shop 
would  be  placed  in  a  position  to  dominate  over  him. 
He  reasons  from  the  only  Catholics  he  knows  to  those 
he  does  not  know,  and  he  assumes  that  the  Irish 
Catholics  throughout  the  country  are  all  like  the 
unskilled  labourers  of  Belfast."  Let  us  note  two 
other  facts  in  the  Belfast  situation.  North-East 
Ulster  is  the  only  part  of  Ireland  dominated  by  rich 
men  and  by  titled  men.  They  distrust  democracy 
as  much  as  they  distrust  Irish  nationalism.  Further, 
as  "  Ulster  Imperialist "  points  out,  there  are  no 
young  men  on  Sir  Edward  Carson's  side.  The  leaders 
are  the  same  men  who  fought  the  battle  in  1893  and 
indeed  in  1886. 

Will  Belfast  always  resist  self-government  for 
Ireland  ?  A  measure  promoted  by  a  Conservative 
Government  would  meet  with  little  opposition. 
The  local  government  act  was  as  revolutionary  as 
any  measure  of  self-government  is  likely  to  be,  and 
Belfast  acquiesced  to  it  because  it  was  promoted  by 


284  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

a  Conservative  Government.  But  if  the  Bill  intro- 
duced by  the  Liberals  goes  through,  what  will  happen 
in  Belfast  and  the  North-East  ?  According  to 
"  Ulster  ImperiaHst,""  "  once  everyone  was  certain 
that  a  measure  of  self-government  was  inevitable,  a 
great  body  of  moderate  opinion  would  separate  itself 
from  the  extremists,  and  (though  there  would  be  no 
alliance  with  the  Nationahst  Party)  would  show  the 
pubHc  that  even  in  Ulster  the  King's  government 
would  be  carried  on.  Would  the  Orange  members 
of  the  North-East  boycott  the  Dublin  Parliament  ? 
The  Protestants  of  the  North  and  West  would  not 
be  agreeable  to  such  action. 

When  one  has  written  so  far,  one  has  to  write  a 
little  further.  An  Irish  Parliament  would  probably 
be  elected  according  to  some  scheme  of  proportionate 
representation.  Protestants  and  Presbyterians  would 
have  due  representation.  The  assembly  would  divide 
on  the  agrarian  question  and  on  the  educational 
question.  The  conflict  would  no  longer  be  between 
Protestants  and  Catholics,  Nationalists  and  Unionists. 
Because  this  is  not  perceived,  an  illusion  exists  that 
a  Catholic  majority  would  persecute  a  Protestant 
minority  in  a  self-governing  Ireland. 


Ill 


A  competence  and  a  culture — to  create  one  and 
develop  the  other  is  the  ambition  of  every  European 
State.  But  little  can  be  done  towards  either  without 
the  discipline  that  comes  from  ruling  and  the  sense 
of   responsibility  that   comes   from   managing  one's 


MY  IRISH  YEAR  285 

own  affairs.  That  has  always  been  a  truth  for  those 
who  hold  the  NationaUst  faith.  Now  more  than  ever, 
they  think,  there  is  a  necessity  for  self-government. 
Every  year  increases  the  multitude  of  officials  and 
pensioners  :  a  parasitic  Ireland  is  being  imposed  upon, 
and  fundamental  Ireland,  and  it  is  only  by  some 
exercise  that  Ireland  can  maintain  her  vigour  and  her 
self-respect.  Meanwhile  what  is  the  great  political 
fact  ?  In  Ireland  there  are  three  and  a  quarter 
million  people  who  desire  self-government.  A  Parlia- 
ment with  an  executive  responsible  to  it — this  they 
regard  as  the  symbol  and  sacrament  of  Irish  nation- 
ality. In  the  present  state  of  world  politics  the  will 
of  this  people  cannot  be  gainsaid.  It  has  always  been 
conceded  that  they  have  a  high  military  courage, 
and  that  they  are  one  of  the  intellectual  peoples. 
A  sociologist  who  knows  his  Europe  will  have  another 
word  to  say  about  them.  They  have  a  religion  that 
ensures  racial  power.  The  Catholic  peoples  root 
themselves  in  the  soil  and  maintain  an  undiminished 
birth  rate.  Pohticians  have  a  further  word  to  say. 
In  the  American  Repubhc  that  is  soon  to  become  an 
enormous  Pacific  Power,  they  have  a  dominating  influ- 
ence. Behind  this  people  there  is  a  hundred  years' 
success,  and  they  have  dismantled  feudaUsm  with 
more  energy  and  thoroughness  than  any  other  people 
in  Europe.  .  .  .  But  I  have  divided  that  which  should 
not  be  divided.  In  Ireland,  Catholic,  Protestant 
and  Presbyterian  are  now  compounded  into  a  single 
people.  A  measure  of  self-government  will  leave  no 
doubt  of  their  community.  "  A  mixture  of  races," 
says  Davis,  "  is  as  much  needed  as  a  mixture  of  Pro- 
testants and  Catholics.  ...  If  a  union  of  all  Irish- 


286  MY  IRISH  YEAR 

born  men  ever  be  accomplished,  Ireland  will  have 
the  greatest  and  most  varied  materials  for  an 
illustrious  nationality,  and  for  a  tolerant  and 
flexible  character  in  literature,  manners,  religion 
and  life  of  any  nation  on  the  earth." 


TURNbUI.L   AND   SPEARS,    PRINTERS,    fDINiiURGH 


Chji^*-'^^'^  Date  Due 

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C-tT'M-.i^^  7  1      H 


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